Ok, I admit it. I ate a hash cookie once.
I was 19, hopelessly naive and living in a squat in London with my much older brother and his immigrant friends. They all worked in menial capacities at a restaurant in Covent Garden, and would arrive home at around midnight wired up and ready to party. Translation: they’d sit around in the third floor kitchen of our dilapidated terrace, smoking joints and exchanging what they evidently thought were witty and hilarious remarks.
I’d sit with them, wide-eyed, trying to follow the conversation, having very little to add. My first experience of inhaling anything was when the old guy next door offered me and my best friend a fag over the fence: it burnt my throat and turned me into a wowser for life. So I just watched, and listened – afraid to admit I was bored shitless. Witty? Hilarious? You’ve…
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