On Monday, we each crawl into work clutching triple-shot americanos and pretending to our colleagues that we’ve had quiet weekends. At 2pm on Sunday, almost out of white powder and with the working week looming large on the horizon, we go home to nurse our heads. Because he won’t come for anything less, we order another 2g of coke and another 2g of MDMA (total cost £180). The prospect of the comedown, an achy, twitching sadness where you can’t stop thinking about a bad thing you said three-and-a‑half years ago, seems too awful to bear. “Film!” “Two words!” “Jumanji?” It’s not exactly Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.Īt some point, I think around 9am, we call the dealer again. I can reveal any part of myself, say anything, no matter how personal or banal.Īt around 4am, high as kites and exhausted from dancing, we all sit down and play charades.
I have a deep sense of compassion for every person in the room. I feel as though I’ve never been so happy, so lucky, so brilliant.
