I'm spectacularly clueless when it comes to drugs. Many years ago I went round to a boyfriend's house to find his back paddock covered in small seedling containers. He said it was for a new crop.
"What crop requires such babying along?" "Maize" he said. And that was over.
I've either been lucky or dim-witted enough to avoid the tidal rip of the druggy world. Except for that one time I ended up on a small island in the middle of the Buenos Aires Delta with a bunch of coke heads and Katherine Mansfield's short stories as sole reading material.
Some work mates had invited me to an Argentine asado and the weekend away in the company bach and added 'don't bother coming if you don't like Charlie.'
Frankly I thought it was a bit mean to be inviting Charlie and then talking about him behind his back to complete strangers and surely he couldn't be that bad. It was only when I went into the kitchen to help out with what I had wrongly assumed to be the frantic chopping of veges and was confronted with vast piles of baby powder on mirrors, it occurred to me that Charlie might not be a person, and that I might be in for an extremely long weekend. And no boat out till Sunday.