If I needed convincing that my nearest and dearest were concerned about the damage smoking was doing to me, this week came with all the proof I could ask for.
Tuesday marked 100 days since a cigarette last touched my lips.
I had worked out the landmark date in the very desperate early days of my smoke-free life and had mentioned in passing to my mother last week.
What I hadn't expected was the banner
s and balloons emblazoned with 100 that she had filled the house with when I came home from work on the big day.
She had also bought a centenary card and crossed out the 'birth' in birthday, replacing it with the word 'health'. Happy Health Day. She then offered to buy me dinner.
My sister put the idea into perspective when, not being one to miss out on ludicrous excuses to celebrate, she insisted she joined us as it was her 'half birthday'.
The whole thing made me realise the genuine worry behind my Ma's continuous nagging about my fag habit.
To go to so much trouble she can't be kidding when she says how happy it makes her that I'm no longer filling my lungs with poison at every opportunity.
As if there weren't enough reasons to stay off the things, I'm not sure I could handle her disappointed face on hearing the news if I ever spark up again.
