I have, of late, and wherefore I know not,
been filled with the desire to stuff drugs up my nose. A sudden realisation
that times fingers were due to mash things up: smudge the jawline
and inscribe lines around the corners of the eyes; drag the tits down
and dimple the meat on the calves and the thighs: this was enough to impel
me, curious-driven and hunger-unsated, towards illicit powders and illegal
tablets. If I didnt start developing more of an unhealthy relationship
with class As, I felt, upping the dosage from, say, some every few
months to some every weekend or whatnot, then the moment might just pass.
I dont want to be doing such things at the age of 40; it wouldnt
be dignified. It isnt dignified now.
Its hard to write at present. The ex read the diary a while back
and yelled at me. Frances isnt in here enough any more, apparently.
Lisa was pissed off because I said she ponced money off our parents. I
called Sophie a nickname with which she, quite reasonably, no longer wishes
to be associated. Its enough to make a girl jack it all in
but then thered be this buzzing in my head. This shit needs to be
lived through twice. Grabbed and shoved and held down: livid, wriggling,
Friday. A gig. A boy. An ex. Some booze. Lots of booze. Put it all together
and whatcha got? Carnage. I wanna draw a veil over the proceedings. A
very thick veil, made of concrete and horsehair and several blocks of
flats. I remember: the sharp flash of Frances hair as she leant
forward over her keyboard; Sophies dad, white-haired and camera-toting:
Bruces moustache tweaked into points; Kats hair, Julies
face (frightened? Was she frightened? Was I frightening?) my ex in a red
top, talking to a girl.
Lets fast-forward through the carnage; suddenly were in a
taxi, getting whisked off to a party. There are bottles. There is a bald
German man, and a lady who turns out to be forty-three, with children,
talking to me about drugs. Im asleep. Ive been given a pill,
but Im asleep. Then Im in another taxi going home. The taxi
driver is lost. Im lost. Where do I live? Not where I used to, eh.
The boy Im with doesnt know either, but the A-Z does. Were
My bedroom is a girls room. Its unbesmirched by boyness and
testosterone. There are cosmetics teetering on a chest of drawers: Clinique
body lotion, Dirty Girl soap. A tangle of hairbands and a leather wristband.
The bed is huge and pink. It feels like a triple; plenty of room
as Cowboy Junkies once sang, for elbows and knees. And in
the drawer next to my bed, as every good girl shouldnt, I have a
gram of ketamine.
Ah, ketamine. Funny stuff. Despite its legal status, this is a drug some
other drug users look down on. It doesnt have the towering terror
of heroin, or the sheer unviability of crack. It doesnt have the
sheen of faded glamour that coats even the smallest wrap of coke. And
its surely not eostoric and decadent, like the opium and chloroform
and nitrous oxide that some of my more adventurous friends make use of.
Nah. Its a fucking horse tranquilliser.
Think about a horse. Think about its size; the meatiness of its flanks;
the mastery of its face. Think about knocking that fucker out. Thats
what were up to, at six a.m. on a Saturday morning, me and my friend
who is a boy who is not gay or a minger: snorting horse tranquilliser
off a Fischerspooner album, sitting on the big pink bed