Something about the way she handled the joint, though, not with trepidation, but with fascination: and her childish excitement — sniffing it first — made me feel this was surely a baptism by spiffy fire. She raised it to her lips and took a drag. But it was a small, experimental one. Then, she frowned, as clearly nothing appeared to be happening. She took a much bigger drag, right down to her pink canvas shoes, then let it out. Her eyes widened as she waited for the psychedelic dawn to come up, for Woodstock, for the Beach Boys, for flowers to appear miraculously in her hair. When they didn't, she raised it eagerly again, but I was too quick for her.

“My turn," I told her firmly. I whipped it from her fingers. "You've had your go."

For some reason I'd rather missed the stage of my life when I should have been entertaining this hobby. I'd been too busy, in a respectable, good-girl way, either riding my pony and painting seascapes, or getting married and having a baby. And despite having been an art student in groovy Glasgow and seeing a fair bit of life, I'd lived with similarly well-brought-up girls who, likewise, didn't indulge. Well, there was always a first time. And frankly, I'd always slightly regretted my well-spent youth. I took a small drag, but as I did, Babs and Celia watched intently. I'd hoped Celia might have collapsed by now. Died, even. I had no choice but to take another one.

"And again," said Celia sternly.

"I've had two."

“That first one didn't count."

"It's not an exam," I snapped, glaring at her. Nevertheless, I went back for more. Rather defiantly, I took an absolutely humungous inhalation this time.

A vast snake, a python of smoke indeed, swirled luxuriantly down and around my lungs. It filled them completely, finding its way into all manner of nooks and crannies I didn't know existed: it was like a Victorian pea-souper, swooping low and triumphantly, claiming the entire geography, transforming the landscape. Such a novel, and not entirely unpleasant experience was it, that I delayed exhaling and held it down. Well done me. Meanwhile, I cannily passed it, without looking at the recipient, keeping my eyes firmly on Babs for signs of grabbing, to the next lucky customer.

“Somehow I had you down for a cocktails-at-six girl," said an amused voice in my ear. Ted was crouched beside me and had relieved me of the joint. He took a drag, then passed it on. “Things are looking up."

I stared, horrified. "Oh – no, no, they're really not," I said, aghast. “Don't, actually. I just did it because—"

“She does," Babs interjected firmly. Her head lurched drunkenly between the two of us. “She does everything. She does drugs, she does sex, she does—"