My attempts to cut down on smoking are going pretty well, apart from the 21 I had on Saturday night. I hope I don't get 'ironic lung cancer' though. That's the one where you give up cigarettes, but get cancer anyway, even though all your friends are hardcore smokers and in perfect health.
Sometimes I think the world is constantly devising methods to get us to die (global warming, leukaemia, knifings) and we're not really living, just constantly dodging death. But those kind of thoughts are stressful and dark, and the worry is likely to kill you.
I can't hope for a noble or honourable death – that kind of demise has been denied to my generation by the invention of nuclear warheads and life-support machines. But I wouldn't mind going like Desert Orchid, the famous British racehorse who snuffed it on Monday.
"There was no stress, he departed from this world with dignity and no fuss," said his former trainer. "He did his dying in the same individual way that he did his living. It was time to go."
Although if I die in a stable aged 27, I think I could justifiably feel a little bit cheated.