I haven’t suddenly become a masochist but morning needle time has oddly become one of my favourite parts of the day.
Even though M sees the syringe as his nemesis and starts suffering convulsions at the thought of giving or receiving an injection, he is sweetly participating in this morning ritual as best he can.
My beloved has become my dashing British dealer and my morning fix is delivered with a nice cup of tea. Every morning he gets up in our freezing cold house, makes me a steaming hot cuppa and prepares the syringe ready for injection whilst I still lay snug in bed… it makes him feel involved and me able to continue, for a few extra minutes at least, with the Ewan McGregor fantasy I alluded to earlier.
As it turns out, it is a lot less difficult to give oneself an injection than I thought. At one stage when it was clear my beloved couldn’t actually be the injector I was ready to drive every morning to Darlinghurst to find any random smackhead to do it.
The first was hard. But after actually doing it I realised that, much like John Howard, it really is just a simple little prick. After that it was a cinch. Don’t get me wrong I haven’t become some kind of sociopath and it’s not actually something I’d ever choose to take up as a hobby like some kind of macabre needlepoint, but with all the tea, sympathy and cuddles surrounding something that could have been quite nasty, we’ve made it as pleasant a ritual as it can be.