So it was excellent news this week when bills to legalise cannabis wereintroduced in Victoria,NSW and Western Australia.
The move would let people aged over 18 legally possess small quantities for personal use and grow up to six plants at home. It would divert users away from police and courts,and money into government coffers –$28 billion in the first decade,according to Greens figures. Recreational use of cannabis is already legal in the trailblazing ACT and in countries including Canada,South Africa,almost half the states in America.
Unreal – I might be able soon to blaze up without worrying about narcs in the shrubbery poised to make an example of a suburban matron.
I tried and hated cannabis in the mid-1980s. It made me subdued when I wanted to be glittery. There was the stigma. My then-boyfriend was dedicated to his bong and I’d storm about in a Laura Ashley skirt and a cloak of righteousness,telling him I didn’t “get him” while he was bent. It was thirsty work,climbing onto my moral high horse – I decimated countless white wine casks in the process.
The decades rolled on,I kept drinking,kept ignoring cannabis. Then seven years ago an older family member was suffering from trigeminal neuralgia,a condition that causes excruciating pain to the face. Prescription drugs didn’t touch the sides. A friend with a few dope plants sent some heads over in a coffee jar. I Googled “make cannabis brownie”,packed it into Tupperware,set up a handover in a supermarket car park.
The brownie’s medicinal effects got strong reviews. Next time a batch was requested,I taste tested. It coincided with my capacity for booze starting to wane. A single cocktail induced cheek gin blossoms,anxiety,headaches,bad sleep,feeling fat. Cannabis was the opposite. I felt dreamy,amused,chill. Sold.