“Oh!” I exclaimed, sudden and joyful. “You mean COCAINE!”
The entire carriage went silent. I did not get the cocaine. I did get to keep the balloon, though.
Amazingly, I was also, finally, offered the naughtiest drug of all — heroin — although the circumstances were not how I thought they would be at all. I’d always fancied that it would occur in some velvet-swagged hotel room, proffered by some hair-swagged rock star, and that somehow I would have turned into beautiful Stevie Nicks by that point.
In fact, it happened in a horrible pub in Camden, was presented by a member of a certain boy band who were a bit like the Showaddywaddy of Britpop, and I was still, very much, just me.
“I’ve just found a wrap on the floor in the toilets,” the bloke said, handing me a frankly filthy paper packet. “I think it’s smack. You can have it if you want.” And then, remembering that I was a journalist: “And thanks for all your support!”
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/com...enComment=true