I remember the very first time I was offered drugs by a fellow student at school. I’ll call him Geoff Castello because that was his real name. As an aside, I also recall that even though the school was in Walthamstow, the address on their stationery pompously declared them as being ‘Near Snaresbrook’ because this was deemed to be a better adjoining neighbourhood.

Anyway, having dutifully given Geoff £1 in exchange for a spliff, I proceeded to hound him daily until he finally told me to ‘chill the beans’ as his supplier hadn’t delivered yet. Eventually, the day arrived when he sauntered across the school-yard and offered me a ready-built joint.

In a rush to discover what a real high felt like, I made my way to the rear of the yard to negotiate a seven-foot brick wall. Landing in dense forest, I then trudged through mud for several minutes, before finding a suitably large bush with a hollow centre. I hacked my way through the jabby nettles and settled into the foliage, certain that I was sufficiently hidden from view.

It was raining quite heavily and I was already drenched, so getting the reefer lit was no small task. With hindsight, I can see how pathetic it all must have looked. However, I was intent on getting stoned and eventually the joint fired. After a hungry, lung-busting draw, I exhaled the dense cloggy smoke and watched it pirhouette languidly towards the forest canopy; ribbons of smog intertwining; translucent lizards in the throes of an intricate foxtrot. I marvelled at the beauty of this and gazed around me, waiting for the muted colours of the surrounding greenery to intensify into more verdant hues, that would singe my corneas with their exaggerated beauty.

But after a few minutes, I had to admit to feeling no different at all. I inhaled even more greedily, probing for the leaden feeling at the back of my cranium and the imminent wave of abandoned euphoria. I squinted at the mundanity around me, waiting for the gentle, anaesthatised half-sleep, that would transform my surroundings into a more vibrant universe.

But still it never came.

With heavy heart, thick spittle and a thrumming headache, I doused the stunted joint in the mud and trudged towards the bus stop. On returning home, I felt hollow and forlornly retired to my bedroom. As I passed the hallway mirror, however, I noticed that something was different; a broad yellow stain now ran from my top lip to the nostrils, gradually fading as it reached the bridge of my nose.

It transpired that Geoff had manufactured my first ‘joint’ from a small amount of tobacco, mixed heavily with lemon tea. For months afterwards I suffered hoots of derision from classmates who’d shout ‘two sugars, please’ at my back.

Naturally, the stain has long gone, but the lesson hasn’t: Don’t ever fuck around with narcotics – especially when you’re only nine years old. Wait until you have a better idea of what you’re buying.

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