I remember when my mom and her friends would sit around the bridge table, all wearing beehive hairstyles and talking about their tranquilisers. I’d roll my eyes, sigh and think THANK GOD I WILL NEVER BE LIKE THEM.
They’d sort through their hearts and spades while casually trading valium across the table.
‘Four No Trump,’ my mother would say, slipping a little blue tablet under her tongue.
‘Have another Quality Street,’ her partner would offer, pocketing a couple of quaaludes.
‘Can’t you just fucking play bridge,’ my father would yell from the background, partaking in a few fabulous pharmaceuticals of his own.
They’re all mad, I would think, vowing to never play bridge or get into prescription drugs.
It’s medicinal, they would tell me, as if that would appease me. I was kind of a highly strung child.
To this day I do not play bridge.
And I do not do pharmaceuticals.
Well, not too many.
But I do sit around tables with my more alternate friends, sipping wine and discussing our own drugs of choice.
And we may not pass around valium but we do pass around the odd little vial of cannabis.
Cannabis plants, cannabis leaves, cannabis oil, cannabis cream, cannabis capsules, cannabis extract, delicious cannabis, cannabis that makes you sleep, gets rid of wrinkles, keeps you calm and cool and cannabis is the new valium and holy fuck I have become my mother.
But I do not play bridge.
And I will never play bridge.
Although I do like Quality Streets.
And I wouldn’t mind a few quaaludes.
‘It’s all medicinal,’ I tell my own children.
Who roll their eyes at me.
And will tell their children the same thing, one day.
Whatever their drug of choice will be.