Nine days without cigarettes

At least she tried to quit:

In the end, I survived nine days without fags; nine derelict lunchtimes in a fag free world. It was a terrible experience, although, as I promised, I did learn to knit. I began a mohair turquoise flak-jacket, with Leon Trotsky's face embroidered on the front. (Minus the ice pick that killed him; it was too fiddly).

The worst part of quitting was the amount of saliva I produced. I almost drowned in it. The whole of my being seemed to sit on my tongue. I was reduced to a mouth; just a mouth and a tongue, with a large mammal attached to it. Usually I have at least a finger as well. When the mouth that was me could sit up, it knitted Trotsky, ate biscuits and watched the Exorcist 3, a film about exploding Catholic priests. When it couldn't it dreamt; of self-help books and patches and nicotine-themed sex.

(From the Guardian.)