It has come to my attention that yesterday's ecstasies over grass generated some confusion. To clarify: by "grass", I meant, y'know, grass. This stuff:
I'm especially partial to Queensland blue couch, but also rather keen on that festucca business, and I won't say no to a good sturdy indigenous tussock.
By "grass", I did not mean marijuana, a herb, while we're on the subject, with an utterly disproportionate number of synonyms. Take coriander, one of the best darn herbs there is. How many synonyms does it have? One. Cilantro. Now take marijuana, a.k.a. hashish, hash, cannabis, grass, pot, weed, ganja, puff, blow, blah, blah, blah. Does it taste nice with haloumi and mango? No. It does not.
I've had a couple of brushes this week with the psychotropical. Yesterday, under extreme social juress, I abused a cup of Russian Caravan tea, orally. It's called Russian Caravan because it tastes of Russian caravans. Just the thing to cure a susceptible tea drunkard of prospective addiction. The day before I'd stood in the same room as a man who smelt as though he'd slept in a nest of slightly damp tobacco. I didn't allude to the pong myself, but he began to rhapsodise, unprompted, over his latest Romeo y Julieta. "Cigarettes are a habit," he said, "but cigars are a hobby." As, of course, are lawns.
By the way: snuff? Are people still sniffin'?