My Friend, Little Deb. A metaphor.

[canetoad]

We are a group of friends, late 50s and older. I'm 63.

Most of us met Little Deb when she delivered the junk mail with her dog patiently trotting behind. She's not a terribly healthy person, some congenital disorders and a learning disability. Didn't matter, she is honest and loves animals.

She will ring me when she has a letter that needs attention. Or to deal with baffling bureaucracy. Deb loves a beer. Loves the slot machines. Loves to come to barbecues.

At one of our barbecues I offered some cannabis around. Little Deb put her hand up for a joint. She'd had a few drinks, I'm well aware of the interactions between cannabis and alcohol. This was potentially taking Little Deb into uncharted territory.

Little Deb's body is hers and hers only to do what she pleases.
Myself and others explained that she would feel strange,
That she may need to lie down, and don't be embarrassed.
Knowing that she understood this, was safe and among friends,
Little Deb had her first toke.

Of course she spun out, felt sick and had to lie down. But we had a quiet bed ready for her to sleep it off.

I should know better at my age and experience. But there were no two ways about it. It was entirely Little Deb's decision. Her body. Her right.