MY mother stood in the doorway of my small study (OK, spare bedroom) and sniffed suspiciously.

"Have you been using fly spray?" she asked, nose wrinkling. "It's a bit early for flies isn't it? I haven't seen any so far this year."

Another sniff: "I can smell something else as well, something very familiar," she said. "If I didn't know you so well I could swear you'd been smoking."

Ishifted uneasily and caught the dog's eye. I had been dog-sitting for my mother all afternoon.

The dog looked at my mother. "And how are you my poppet?" she said turning towards the animal, her back to me.

In my mind I imagined the response. "Fine thanks, but you're right, she has been smoking. And I know, she's always nagging you to stop and saying it's a filthy habit which will send you to an early grave..." (my mother is pushing 80).

Alright, I'll come clean, I had been smoking. I can't explain why. I just had this urge for a surge of nicotine to the system. It was just one of those things, tra-la-la.

Many years ago I used to enjoy a smoke but then I decided to give up. Just like that. And, this incident apart, I've never had the slightest inclination to light up a cigarette again.

Unfortunately, though I try not to be smug I can't resist the temptation to be just that. "Of course you can give up," I hector weedies. "Saying the withdrawal symptoms are hell is just a load of tosh. I did it, so can you."

And though I have ashtrays in my home, I cough and splutter dramatically when anyone has the gall to actually light up. I also sneer at colleagues, slaves to their addiction, who stand in the street outside our non-smoking office, often in the driving rain, ciggies clenched between chattering teeth.

"Cigarettes screw your lungs, wreck your skin, make you smell and leave you broke," I parrot to anyone who'll listen, or who happens to be in earshot.

As often as not that happens to be my mother, who tells me quite forcefully what I can do with my opinions. She even has a favourite four-letter word for me - prig.

She started smoking as a young Wraf in the last war and I reckon her last defiant breath will be between puffs. And, though she hasn't said so, I know she'll feel more comfortable when she makes her final journey if I slip a box of matches and a packet of low tars into her coffin.

Igive you all this background information so you can understand why I was reluctant to allow my mother to catch me in flagrante (the fly spray, unfortunately, was all I had at hand to mask the smell of burning tobacco).

Anyway, I thought I'd got away with it till the weekend when my mother arrived looking, well, sort of smug.

"I'll have my cigarettes now," she said.

Ilooked puzzled, I was puzzled. "What cigarettes?" I asked.

"The cigarettes you bought at the off-licence last week from that assistant who always serves me. You told her they were for your mother," she explained.

"She also said you bought a bottle of gin - for your mother - which she hoped I'd enjoyed. I told her I certainly will! You know, you're not such a prig after all..."

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.