D-day deserves a spray of special

She has a terrible memory. She once completely forgot she was married and carried on as if she was single for seven of the nine years we were together.

My first wife was the polar opposite. She remembered everything. Even stuff that couldn’t possibly have happened. I have always been drawn to extremes. Very few of the women who have stampeded through my life have been schooled in the ways of the handmaid. In my defence, the demented ones have almost always sought me out. I’m just not every good at saying no. The benefit of consorting with dangerous women is that when things do implode, you aren’t left mooching about with a broken heart. You get treated for post-traumatic stress and move on.

I think it is fitting, not to mention ironic, that my divorce is being granted in the middle of Drug Awareness Week. The only reason my freedom might not be granted today – apart from the judge deciding that I deserve to be punished further – is because my wife didn’t pitch up. Failing to appear was one of her specialities. One minute she’s there and the next she’s … well, still there. But not. Benzodiazepines are psychoactive drugs whose chemical structure is the fusion of a benzene ring and a diazepine ring. Toss in a wedding ring, wash it all down with a bucket of gin, and you’re set for an eventful night. Or, in my case, nine years.

Benzos aren’t massively enjoyable for the person not taking them. The abstainer, perhaps nursing a muscle-relaxant of his preference, will need to take precautionary measures as the evening’s inappropriate behaviour – which only moments before had held such promise – mutates from fun to frightening in a very short space of time. Knives must be collected, car keys hidden and rudimentary wills hastily drafted on serviettes.

Things can get interesting after a handful of sleeping pills – zolpidem, I’m looking at you – and, instead of going to bed, you stay up and play very loud music, dance crazily, shout at dead Colombian authors and stab yourself for fun. This is not an advertisement.

The next day you wake up feeling fabulous but can’t understand why the neighbours are furious, the spouse is barricaded in the spare room and there’s a blood-stained invoice from a paramedic company on the kitchen counter.

Amnesia is not always a bad thing, but if you are the one filing for divorce, the least you can do is remember to go to court. I don’t want to have to do it. I did the first one. And I’ve been in court way more times than she has. Sometimes as a court reporter, other times as the accused.

Which reminds me. This being Drug Awareness Week, I have decided to celebrate my divorce by going for dinner and drugs simultaneously. And where better to celebrate than Col’Cacchio, a franchise that, in keeping with the theme of the week, is offering pizzas drenched in cannabis oil. Okay, so it’s more drizzled than drenched. And it’s not so much THC as it is CBD. If you don’t know the difference, you have no business reading this column.

I saw their advert. “A spray of special,” it said. “Our new cannabis pizzas are drizzled with africanpure, SA’s leading CBD oil, believed to be associated with a range of health benefits.” If you’re not all that hungry, they will even spray it on your salad. What a refreshing change from having the police spray your marijuana with carcinogenic glyphosate.

Here’s the thing, though. Although cannabidiol is among the compounds found in the cannabis sativa plant, the oil is not psychoactive. You might ask, then, what is the point of having it on your pizza if it’s not going to make you laugh uncontrollably, feel erotically paranoid and get the munchies even though your face is already full of pizza.

CBD, according to the dark web, is “an appealing option for those who are looking for relief from pain without the mind-altering effects of marijuana”. I don’t know, man. I’m having second thoughts about this. If I was in pain, I wouldn’t be thinking of pizza. Do these clean-living relief-seekers understand that the effects of THC aren’t permanent? I mean, dude, your mind isn’t going to stay altered. You’re going right back to where you were a couple of hours before.

Look, I don’t want to denigrate pizzas. Or even CBD. If it works for you, fine. I’ve never tried it. I have, however, tried oil of the non-CBD kind. I was unable to talk and it took me an hour to walk to the bathroom. I might have had too much. I can see why Col’Cacchio might not want this on their food. Every evening would be like The Night of the Living Dead. Not ideal for families.

The use and possession of cannabis was criminalised in South Africa in 1928 because it was making the darkies unreasonably happy. It’s ninety-one years later and you will still get arrested if you try to buy it. However, you can sort of smoke it at home if you have your doors closed and curtains drawn.

It’s going to take us a bit longer to catch up to third world countries like Canada, where you can purloin great steaming gobs of ganja right there on the main street. The difference between them and us is that their government listens to what the people want and does what the economy requires.

Fun fact. Colorado has racked up $6 billion in marijuana sales in just five years. Over $140 million in March this year alone. Mthatha could be the smart city our president dreams of. Oh, well. At least we’re allowed to have cannabinoid oil drizzled on our pizza now. What great strides we’re making.

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