School run starts at 7.45 and the island feels half awake. Three kids in three directions, two backpacks missing water bottles, one shoe under the sofa. WhatsApp class chats ping like a slot machine. Someone’s bus is late. Someone else forgot consent for a museum trip. By 8.50 my watch says 3,100 steps and I have not yet opened the laptop. I am already sweating like I’ve done a workout. All I’ve done is parent.
At 9.05 a UK client slides a message. Deadline moved forward. Not a disaster, just the usual wobble you pretend is fine. I open the whiteboard and throw up the RAG board. Red gets anything due this week that moves money. Amber covers the stuff that protects next week. Green is nice to have and probably my ego. I block 90 minutes, phone facedown, door half closed. Twins are at preschool till noon if the wind is kind. Leo has training later if the coach’s knee holds. There is a small window, so I use it.
Craving hits at 9.22 out of nowhere. That old reflex. Reward cigarette for starting. Reward cigarette for finishing. Reward cigarette for remembering to breathe. I stand up, run a glass of water, set a timer, and do box breathing. Four in, hold, four out, hold. Feels silly for eight seconds, then my chest loosens a notch. Second round and my shoulders drop. Third round and the edge goes. I write it down in the same notebook as invoices because it is the same skill. Log the thing. Track it. Give it a line.
Work happens when you protect a small square of time and stop pretending you can do six jobs at once. I build the deck, cut the fluff, write the price so there is no room to wriggle. I send a draft. The twins’ pickup is already crowding my brain. I keep the board in front of me like a second brain. Red first. Amber if there is time. Green later or never.
The cashflow check is a ritual now. Open the sheet. Confirm three numbers. Bank today. Invoices due in. Bills due out. Ninety seconds. Not an afternoon lost to anxiety. Close it. Back to work. Nobody claps when you do that. You just breathe better for the rest of the day.
At 11.47 the school pings again. Early pickup because of heat. Ibiza has the calendar of a place that believes in siesta, sports, and sudden assemblies. I grab keys, snacks, and the wrong bag. The PE kit is in the hallway and I leave it there like a genius. On the way back we stop for fuel. The forecourt is where I used to buy cigarettes without thinking. I stare at the shelf, feel the old itch, and do four quiet counts. In. Hold. Out. Hold. I buy gum. The twins ask for ice cream. I say yes to one. Growth.
Sara catches me in the kitchen at two. She is kind in a way that does not let me wriggle. You are short with everyone, she says. Withdrawal is not a personality. We set a rule. No screens after 8 this week. Boring, practical, a bit depressing, probably effective. She squeezes my shoulder and I remember why I am doing this. Lungs. Money. Not smelling like a pub at breakfast.
Afternoon is messy. Client wants a quick call that lands on pickup. I put an earbud in and walk the pavement outside the school pretending the cicadas are white noise. I apologise for the street noise. I explain the change notes out loud and type a reminder with my thumb. I promise a cleaned version by 5. I collect three children, two drawings, one mystery stone that is now a family treasure.
The second 90 minute block happens because cartoons exist and I am not too proud to use them. I fix the deck, send the file, update the RAG board. Red turns amber. Amber turns green. There is a quiet click inside my head when the thing leaves my outbox. Not pride, just relief. I pack a bag, we head to the beach for twenty minutes. We pick up bottle caps, a cracked fork, half a flip flop. The twins race a line of dried seaweed. Leo sulks about drills, then laughs when a wave sneaks up and gets him to the knees.
Evening is pasta, bath, Lego tide across the hallway, and that new rule about screens. The itch shows up once more at 9.12. I breathe it down. I drink water I do not want. I stand on the terrace and listen to scooters somewhere in the warm dark.
Quitting is not heroic. It is admin. Same muscles as cashflow checks and RAG boards and the magnetic strip on the fridge calendar. You do the unglamorous little task and it makes other things possible.
Phone note at 10.03. Day 3 no smoke. Delivered. Kids sticky. Try again tomorrow.