Nicotine High

As ever, I am an occasional, infrequent smoker, shamefully relying on the kindness of real smokers who put up with the price of tobacco and the scary images on the packets.

Oxygen deprivation gives me a short, subtle high. The reward of my (more or less) weekly fag crashing.

Otherwise, sock-knitting does a good job.

"Après ceux qui s'affolent, holà,

Voilà ceux qui s'affalent."

So true.

Jacaranda Explosion

 

I love this moment when the streets become pale purple, the sun starts to hit, and my skin turns brown. In between, I read the life stories of Somali immigrants in Northern Europe, and this brilliant article about Juliano Mer-Khamis (please read it; it is long but absolutely worth every minute you'll spend on it). It gives me a sudden, imperious flash of inspiration: I want to get high on top-quality weed, and lose all my identities in the process. 

I discuss the idea with my husband. His reaction, while not exactly disapproving, is all about the sharpness of the mind.

I end up buying fresh milk to make paneer tikka masala. The sadness of life.