Escaping Ganjaland

Crumpet, Ganja, Peng are all common British slang for marijuana, or cannabis. They are also the names for the pungent aroma I frequently try to shut out of my double-room ensuite in the evenings and at weekends, when my local potheads indulge their desire to absent their brains from common reality.

I should consider myself lucky. Now there are only two out of five other males who scent the air with their (still technically illegal) smoke, before there were three. One user and two dealers out of a composite six males in residence in this smallish, newish house in what was Britain’s first city. One dealer was raided by the local constabulary, and disappeared. The other remains supplying the user. Together, but independently, they puff their cannabinoids into the house milieu. Hot air rises. I am inundated with unwanted secondary smoke laden with cannabinoids and carcinogens..

I confess that in my youthful past I too imbibed in the smoking of illicit substances. That was mostly fifty-plus years since. The more recent being a few puffs, seven years ago, at an art gallery viewing night in Kuala Lumpur, where cannabis is not only illegal but still brings the death penalty if you’re not careful.

For me, the use of substances which block my thought processes never became habitual after my twenties, when age has done that quite naturally. Since slipping over the half century mark, my brain quite naturally runs at half its previous speed, and doesn’t need any external help to impair cognitive function. Quite the contrary. Now I practice meditation, in the dire hope that I can desperately cling onto what mental capacity I have left.

It has been an experience. Not one I have consciously sought out, but interesting nevertheless. The irony is that my future (proposed at this point) abode is in a Grade II listed building where smoking of any description is banned. So are pets, and young children. Smoking werewolf children triply so.