My week on drugs – by “Frank”
“Frank” is a London girl born and raised, film industry careered, young enough to get ID’d but old enough to know better.
This is a random sample of my drug activity for self-analytical purposes. None of the drug taking listed here is considered ‘illegal’, but the decision to hide my identity is possibly indicative of feeling a little bit guilty.
The state of my weekday mornings depend on the amount of alcohol consumed the previous weekend, which in the case of Monday was possibly too much. Popped my regular 5 pills a day (sea kelp, vitamin b complex, cod liver oil, calcium, magnesium and zinc) washed down with the god-send that is Berocca.
This makes me feel normal for the first half of the day, then I succumb to the evil pull of sweet nicotine. A pull that was once the reserve of social evening drinking times and is slowly invading sober afternoons, under the guise of it being a stressful day at work. I mostly work part time from the comfort of my living room.
I do have a bar job though, and this warrants more smoking in the evening. I only smoke rollies. I hear they are healthier. And one day I’ll learn the art of back-rolling so I don’t have to fill my lungs with so much pointless paper.
I drink tea all day, but opt for caffeine-free after 6pm on account of my fear of insomnia. So out comes the camomile and peppermint varieties. The 6pm rule doesn’t apply to alcohol or cigarettes, which is convenient.
Insomnia does inevitably take hold, probably due to the havoc I played on my body clock over the weekend. But I keep sleeping pills for such emergencies and I’m out for the count. The downside to sleeping pills is they seem to have a 24 hour effect. With limbs of lead the next morning I anticipate yoga will be a struggle.
When Wednesday rolls around I’m not sure I want to drink yet, but as I have a date that night I can’t not. After several glasses of wine I stumble out for a fag and discover my date doesn’t smoke. Awkward. I try to explain that I’m not really a smoker either. I donate my rollie to a passing homeless guy. This makes me feel better about the whole situation.
On Friday I am dragged out to a party. I arrive sober but with White Zinfandel in hand. I am ushered into an already crowded kitchen, brimming with very smiley giggly people and the intermittent sound of balloons being filled and emptied. I hated laughing gas the first time I tried it at Glastonbury. My brain went all juddery and the world turned robotic. Not in a fun way. This time was much better, the rubbery ping of brain cells popping reminiscent of inhaling helium as a kid. So after several hits and nearly finishing my bottle of rosé I proceed to go in search of my rosé, which is in fact hooked under my arm. Smooth.
Crashing out on the sofa is the inevitable downside to the lack of illegal substances. But how convenient to wake up with clothes and makeup already in place.
After the great shoe-hunt we head to the nearest ‘Spoons. The bravest among us are drinking again but I’m on the OJ, eggs and beans. Vitamins and protein. There are headaches all round and being a walking pharmacy I dole out the paracetamol. Some of the caplets explode so we dot the ‘Spoons table with powdery lines and wait for the wrath of the manager.
One stomach-churning tube ride later and I treat myself to a bath and half a Valium, originally prescribed for my fear of flying. Then I pop my 5 a day, watch Withnail and I for the hundredth time, and decide I need a holiday.