How I'm doing so far...

It's been a busy few weeks; things didn't exactly go to plan with quitting. After my wife kicked me out, with no notice, and no money, I spent a couple weeks bumming around, crashing here and there before getting a hotel and living on credit. I'm not sure how, but I did maintain my habit, despite my best intentions.

I'd been hitting it hard, been bringing gear into the city, investing in other local dealers, and using, using, using, using, with patched of sickness (I'm giving up, honest) in between. I had a two week holiday recently though, and I moved into a new flat, which is kinda nice.

I rattled during the holiday, got to day three, suffered the shits, the vomiting, the feeling like death and the sleeplessness, got over the worse, and had a hit to celebrate. Since then, I've carried on using daily, but not a huge amount.

I have been using less than usual, and am a day clean again. I had the police drop all charges against me, and I'm beginning to see a little chink of light at the end of the tunnel. Odds are that it's a train, but we'll see...

I'm feeling a lot more positive than I have done for a while, and am drinking less, and I'm aware that this has to stop. It's no life at all, and it's costing a fortune. It's just not woth the effort any more. So, I'm on the verge of changing my number and deleting that of every user or dealer I know. Thing is, that will reduce my social life and circle to pretty much zero. Although there is a boxing gym that does white collar fighting a few doors down from me, and I do want to get healthy. I'm not good at sticking to gyms alone, but the idea of competing and eventually fighting is a motivator. I've lost a lot of weight recently, and started doing some basic exercise, so maybe now is a good opportunity for me to actually sort my act out.

I've a lot to do with bills, debts, lawyers, family, and I don't have time to be trashed.

I am by nature a lazy bastard though, and the lure of the sofa is always strong and if I'm not active and busy, then I'm in trouble...

I'm seeing a lot of omens too; other people succeeding, and failing; many of my friends are inside, and a colleague that just completed alcohol rehab and looked human, and seemed pretty well has just come flying off the wagon, and no longer has a job, and is in a really really bad place. She's fucked; no income, no savings, misery, mounting bills and no future. I don't want that, but it's where I'm headed (again) if I'm not careful. I need to fill my time doing normal things, with normal people. I have gradually alienated myself from this sort of life, and have never felt settled in it; opting out was always ok, and my partner tied me to reality. Now my link to normality is gone, and I need to forge new ones.

Anyone got any ideas?

Oh dear

Things have gone nuts. Since deciding to stop using, I have been kicked out by my wife, with none of my stuff, and with the Old Bill hot on my tail! So I'm a homeless, penniless fugitive!

Things took a turn for the worst when I stopped using; I went through the rattle, which was ok, but interfered with family life, medicating with MSTs when things got awful. On Monday, I had no MSTs near me, so I had a hit to stop the sickness. Then told my wife. She went loopy and kicked me ut; I'd given her all my money at the start of the month, so was skint and entirely vulnerable, so rather than starve, I took her credit card and withdrew £230. It's my fucking money anyway, and I'm still grands out of pocket.

I've done some sofa surfing and floor sleeping, but am now in a hotel. I'm going to work, on time, clean, well presented and hitting my numbers, so that's ok.

I have a lot of bills coming up this next week or so; it'll be interesting to se how I get on. I'm still going to get clean, and do it on my terms.

Still, what a lot of fuckery...

I'll go into more detail later, but I miss my son horribly, I'm fucking furious that after 13 years, all my adult fucking life, my wife refused to speak to me about it sensibly (I don't mind leaving, it's fin, but I am livid about the aount of spite she showed). Then I had her father gobbing off at me. I'm proud to say I remained calm, and said I'd be happy to tell them anything they wanted to know. I'm less proud to recount that, equally calmly, I told him I'd drop him like a sack of shit if he spoke to me that way again. Regardless of who he is.

All of this is a massive trigger to go get smashed, but do I really want to? It'll achieve nothing, and I`'m broke til payday.

Time for a wash, and to get myself clean?

So, he we are again. I've don the months money on gear, and having a good time. I've no money left, and I don't want to borrow. Times are tough, I'm rattling like a motherfucker (although thank God for my MSTs, which I take at 4 times the prescribed dose. It's reached the point that I always knew would arrive; I've got a problem.

So; no drugs for the next few weeks. I'm skint, so they have to stop. I'm also getting grief for using morphine at work, so maybe I should taper down.

Is an opiate free life desirable? Do I want that?

There are pluses to it; no more hiding my arms, no more long sleeves, no more having works stashed about the place, no more worry about being pulled over, no more inappropriate nodding out, no frustration, no having to fuck about and meet idiot runners, loads more money.

The downside; no gear, no needles, no hustling, no excitement.

When it comes down to it, this was only supposed to be a passing thing; I only wanted to try the needle (but I love getting a shot in, my veins are hard work, so I always feel a sense of achievement), and before that I only wanted to have the odd smoke.

My habit has been rocketing (I've had a load of money recently), and I'm frightened of going cold. I'm not keen on a meth script, so I need to maintain and taper my MST use; do I have the discipline? Today, not so far!

I've always known I'd have to stop this at some point; it can't be for life. It's a bit of fun. But it's escalating and the signs are clear for anyone to read, even me. I've used daily for 3 years. Every day, more or less, and I've had no problems or financial issues. Now, this month, things are different. I always said at this point I'd have to man up and stop it, I have too much to lose in abandoning myself to drugs.

Also, and this is maybe a big prompt for me; I'm in touch with old friends a lot. I look at their lives, and they're better than mine. There's still drink and drugs involved, but they have their own companies, or are seniors in big organisations, or have porsches, or are in the US or Oz, they've lived the life I wanted and could have had; still going to festivals, having more stuff, having money available all the time; I've knocked myself to the kerb with my drug use; financially ruined myself (I have debts approaching £50k that I've just ignored, although they'll be simple enough to clear on my income), and maybe, just maybe, although I'm content enough as I am, and I can argue my position well with anyone, maybe there's more to life than this; maybe I should get rid of this monkey (who now steals from my legitimate life, dipping into family time and money), maybe I should start trying to achieve.

My friends kept drugs and partying in balance, and on the side. I let them dominate my life, ruin my education and finances, and then dropped that habit, said I was cured, and moved onto the next DOC...

I want financial independence, more kids, and I want freedom. I don't really drink, or socialise; I can feel myself becoming socially awkward as my interaction with idiots becomes more common; I find myself bonding with fools, while despising them. This ain't good.

I've always been insecure (which is maybe why I'm so driven to succeed), I 've often been a little awkward socially; drugs have pulled me off track. I loathe crack, and don't like coke (although I had a few lines for the first time in years, on Friday. It was fucking shit, not like what I used to sell. A proper disappointment).

I'v always tied my identity up with drugs; partier, then raver, then promoter, then dealer (and I'm talking turining over, on a decent week, 4 kilos of skunk, 2000 E pills, 500 acid trips, half a bar of coke {4.5oz, 126g} and a few ounces of ketamine), then ex-dealer, then coke and crack addict, the rehab, and clean, then heroin chipper, then functional addict, then being here, balancing on the edge.

I wish more than anything, I'd had the drive, or could have been bothered, to put this to one side; do it, enjoy it and not let it dominate me; Iwas fine until I moved into coke.

Still, I'm not apologetic; I'm not ashamed (although a little embarrassed), I sure as hell do not blame drugs.

Every bad decision has been mine. I have been educated, and counselled others as a University Senior, and my eyes have been open. My life, my fuck ups, my disasters are my own. I control my addictions, they do not control me. I have been weak willed, and maybe focussed on the wrong things. I do not accept that I am powerless, and I reject, with every fibre of my being, that I need the help of a Higher Power, or God. I will not excuse my behaviour by blaming the drugs; I will not absolve responsibility to an imaginary conceit. I am responsible for my actions, both good and bad.

Thing is, saying goodbye to heroin, well, that's like saying goodbye to a good friend with whom you have had a close, deep and true friendship with, but that has soured through minor betrayals and arguments. Something you'll miss, that you'll think of often, a relationship you'll revisit, reliving and replotting former events, mentally making tiny alterations to your history that allow the two of you to carry on living together as friends, like before, like you both wanted.

Other drugs are different; I hate coke and crack. My time for e and hallucinogens has passed, sad to say, I like a drink, but not to get pissed. These things are all just substances; theycan come and go, and I don't care. Heroin though, I see as a friend, not just a brown powder that has no intrinsic value. I also fear the anger and hate of a rejected friend that knows your weak spots and has vicious tendencies – the withdrawal.

While I'm at it, I should mention another reason for giving up. I tend to use with Shelley, one of my closest friends, and the girlfriend of my friend, Mickey. Mickey's away right now and I have a duty towards Shelley. She's pregnant, and has slowed herself down to just her meth script, with a bit on top. Using when pregnant isn't right; for her, the baby or Mickey, so I'm coming off in sympathy with her.

The time's right for a change. My heroin adventures were fun, and I've enjoyed being a tourist in some deep dark places. These places weren't fun when I had no choice, back in my homeless crackhead days, but I've enjoyed them and the characters, while always having an out, and a route back to my life. The two worlds are gradually meshing though, and it's time to end the schizophrenia.

Now, if I can just find my works for one last hit...

(joke)

Christian Moron

I saw this today, and found it to be one of the funniest things I've ever read. I found it on Sarcastic Bastard's website. Enjoy...

Quote of the Damn Day from a Damn Pinhead

Everyone knows scientists insist on using complex terminology to make it harder for True Christians to refute their claims. 
Deoxyribonucleic Acid, for example... sounds impressive, right? But have you ever seen what happens if you put something in acid? It dissolves! If we had all this acid in our cells, we'd all dissolve! So much for the Theory of Evolution, Check MATE!

[NOTE: I particularly like the Check MATE! at the end, like he's made such a great point or something. What a fucking moron.]

It ain't all fun, fun, fun

I'd been receiving prank calls late at night. Well, nt prank calls, but calls that I didn't want to answer. Calls from a man called Dixie; a clown, a waster and a fool. A man that drank to the point of insensibility, that ued whatever drugs he came across, that believed his London accent and an ability to talk big made him a man of consequence. Thing is, when he was discussing brutality, or suggesting a robbery, or trying to arrange the ripping off of a dealer or runner, well, thing is, itwas always around more capable people; he wanted to be a big man and do big man things, but he was at heart a small man, a coward, someone that felt he had to impress wih his tales of terror. A nothing with a police owned phone, an unstable paranoid dedicated to an idealised mother.

He'd been calling me late at night. My friend Mick and I lived together, but he'd gone to his other place to receive a visit from Eva, his girl. Dixie had got our numbers mixed up. I killed my phone's ringer as a result when I went to bed. I awoke to 64 missed missed calls, 38 voicemails and more texts than I could count.

Eva was beautiful. She was a lovely girl, early twenties; pretty, kind, thoughtful, loving, polite. A really nice girl. In everyway. I thought she was wonderful. She was special. She was my best friend's girl, and she was an alcoholic. We were friends, all of us, and had forged a really close bond in rehab together. We were all on good form together, laughing and joking. Eva was particularly fun, ripping the piss out of both of us.

Mickey and I are ver very different, opposite in every way. He's black, I'm white. He is a seriously tough man, I'm not. We are friends though, very close, and with Eva we made a triangle. We were wearing maching hats, with pigtails on.

“Go on, kiss! You make such a lovely couple!”

Things were good, we were happy. One Friday I came over during my lunch break. Eva was playing cards, as always making up the rules as she went along, so that she was guaranteed to win; for her many good qualities, she waswithout a shadow of a doubt the most unscrupulous cards player I've ever come across. We were chaffing insults at each other, interspaced with kisses between her and Mick, and I left them to it. All was well with the world.

I got back to the flat a few hours later, after work, and Mick and I went out to do what we do. While out, I had a terrible reaction to something I'd eaten. I desperately needed the toilet, but nowhere was open. I eventually found a coffee shop, got a key to their outside toilet, and destroyed it. It was awful; the most terrible crap of my life. Usually, being a man, I take a certain amount of quiet pride when I produce a dreadful smell. Not this time, I was choking on my own fumes. 

After a little while; a time of protracted burbling and splattering sounds, I began to clean myself up. A mammoth task taking whole minutes, but eventually I was as good as new. The toilet however wasn't. I'd somehow got shit all up the cistern, the seat, the wall behind it and the floor. I threw the key back to the shopowner, and ran. I thought that would be the story of the day, but it was trumped in the worst way possible.

We made our way home, with beer, and I left Mick to it with Eva, and went to my bed. The next thing, it was 9am, and I had a multitude of messages waiting for me. I looked at them, and the most recent simply said “Eva's Dead.”

I started to shake, and called Mickey repeatedly until he answered. He was busy, and I only got a quick chat, the gist of it being Get Here Now.

I ran to the fridge, shaking, and glugged down the little bit of cider I had left. I know it's weak, but I wanted a drink. It was a cold February day, a Saturday, and it was gloriously sunny. I sprinted the half mile between our houses and promptly found myself being interviewed by the police. They were convinced we were on drugs and that Eva had suffered an OD, but gradually that was disproven.

The next day was awful. What am I saying, the next weeks were awful. The post mortem, the funeral, all of it. The fallout when we found it was alcohol poisoning from some moonshine a neighbour had given her, when trying to take advantage of her, was violent and led to several people fleeing the city for fear of reprisals. I dealt with one of the others, and he's left town; the other Mick got hold of, well, he's vanished too.

Our lives were upside down for a while, and Mickey's still is; he went off the rails and is in jail. Mine, well, I think of her every day and miss her, and the friendship we all shared. It affected Mike and I too, but we survived.

It's what you get when you sign up to a life of substance abuse, be it booze or drugs. You lose vital people, and your life is never the same afterwards.

A response to Nobody Special,

I'm away right now and monitoring the blog from my mobile. It won't let me comment for some reason, hence new post.

Nobody Special made an odd comment I didn't really see the relevance of earlier, on the entry titled "Finally, I post."

I'm not sure how you've got that idea, I think you've misread or misunderstood something. I'm 31, born August 1979.

I'm happy to answer any questions you have. This blog is entirely open and honest.

Thanks for reading.

Also, I'd love to know firstly what you find fishy, secondly how you came here, and thirdly what you think the point of me lying about my age would be?

If you do have a sensible question, I'm happy to help any way I can.

Finally, props and thanks to Gledwood; he and Shane inspired me to hit the keyboard.

Teenage innocents: honest

“Fucking leg it!”

That was the first sensible thing that had been said by any of us, all day. Barely glancing behind me, I grabbed Ashley's collar, dragged him to his feet and began to run, sprinting until my lungs burst and I'd reached the corner of the road.

I heard sirens coming from both directions and saw the first Police cars flying towards us. I was grateful I'd paused for breath on the corner, if we'd have been running we'd have been done for. Ash was panicking, the police cars in the distance were coming closer, and we knew they'd be looking for us. 

"Stay cool, Ash, walk slowly, with me” 

I looked for escape routes. The day was bright and sunny though, we'd be seen in an instant if we hid in a garden, or behind some bins. We were on a sprawling 1960s low-rise council estate, my eyes were flickering round, searching out potential cut-throughs and alleyways. Nothing presented itself as being a good option, but we had to get off the road. Quickly. My face was swelling at the side, Ash was bloody, we were clearly responsible for this onslaught of Old Bill, and if the Panda cars got a glance at us, they'd tumble us. I saw a shop over the road, and thought, “Sanctuary.”

"You got any money?”

"What?”

"Ash, do you have any fucking money?”

"How's that going to help, oh no, we're fucked, we're fucked, what're we going to do?”

"Shut up. Just come”

I sauntered over the road, ahead of the approaching cars, simulating relaxed conversation, trying hard to look like any normal teenager wandering about on a Thursday afternoon. Ash came with me, head twitching and jerking; Pinocchio under the control of a puppeteer with Parkinsons. I got him into the shop just as the nose of the first car screamed past.

I breathed out, rummaged through my own pockets, and Ashley's, took the money we had, and invested it wisely in some sweets and a couple of cans of beer. I took an eternity choosing, to let the cars reach the site of the emergency. We left the shop after some light hearted banter with the shopkeeper, trying to work out what had happened, but as we were leaving, a witness to the accident was approaching from the other direction.

I pushed Ash down a sidestreet and we ran, heads down, fists pumping, knees a blur until we came to the edge of the estate. We hurdled the low fence, crossed the main artery into town with barely a glance, and headed over a field into a copse.

We sat for a moment, trembling and sweating, both of us in some sort of shock from what had happened and both of us thinking about how we'd get out of it with a whole skin. Ashley wasn't proving to be the calmest person in a crisis. The load was on my shoulders, and if we to get home unscathed I had better get my act together.

There had been five of us in the car when it crashed, and I remembered seeing all of us leaving the scene. From what I'd gathered, Andy had broken his arm, Steve was ok, and Yorkie had seriously hurt his leg. There was no way they'd get away, they'd gone back in the direction of Steve's house and they were all well known locally. I wasn't, nor was Ashley. Yorkie didn't know either of us, Steve wouldn't grass any more than I would, and Andy made a big thing of how tough he was, so we should be safe there too.

All this passed through my mind in an instant, and it registered that the most important thing for us was to get out. There were witnesses, we were too near, and the police would be looking for two battered boys, with a bag, wearing red tops.

We poured water over ourselves, scrubbed the dirt and blood off, dumped the jumpers and the bag;  I pulled on a hat, we  drank our drinks and headed out to the main road. We had a four mile walk home along the main road, but that was a real no-no, and we'd have to go through the countryside.

The walk home, once we had got out of the immediate area, was pretty nice and uneventful. It was a beautiful day in late spring, the terror had receded and we were beginning to relive events; relief washing over and through us, relaxing us and allowing us to come up with a cover story to explain my swollen face and Ashley's cuts and bruises. As so often happens when something out of ordinary has happened, we came across a credit card lying in the side of the road. My natural instinct was to go spending (CCTV not being so prevalent then) but I figured we had enough on the debit side of the ledger, and perhaps this once I should be on the side of the Angels. I broke the card and dropped it down a drain.

Over the miles the scale of the incident receded; we were laughing and joking, the sun was in the sky, our hearts were light, and we'd managed to get away with it. We spoke solemnly about the plight that our friends were undoubtedly in, and we rehearsed our cover story until we knew it backwards. We turned the corner to get to Ashley's house and all of a sudden our happiness, our sense of security, our good humour vanished. It had simply been a veneer, covering our fear with a cheap layer of plastic, as easily scratched and penetrated as cheap worktops. A police car was parked at the top of the road. 

The cars we heard passing became the sounds of the tumbrill, the summer birds' cheeping and chirping became the sound of knitting needles, clacking together to show the mothers meeting disapproval. We walked on to our sure and certain death; we would soon be in a cell, and there was no chance to escape. We could run, but where to? If they wanted us, they'd find us, so why put it off. With that thought in the forefront of my mind I told Ashley to say nothing at all, not to explain , or justify; do nothing at all except admit you were there, and that you had no idea we were doing anything illegal. There was no time for depth, I just had to hope he'd do as he was told and keep the trouble to a minimum.

The back door opened as we approached. Ashley's Mum was there, and she opened her mouth to speak. Ashley and I looked at each other and braced ourselves;

Would you like a cup of tea boys, I bet you've had a busy day with your friends?”

There was a pause.

Are you boys all right? You look a bit pale.”

I should say we probably did. The police car at the end of the road was a coincidence. I took a deep breath, and a time out. The day continued much like that until evening time, ups and downs; one minute we were fine, the next we'd hear a siren in the background and our pulses would rocket, our hearts beating through our chests, our palms becoming clammy, our bumps and scrapes twice as uncomfortable.

The next day we were going bowling, so we rose early, got ready and went to Doncaster. The day was blazing hot, and I remember arguing viciously about the merits of mineral water, before calling Steve to see if he was free. He was, but said we may need to watch our backs. Andy was being a bit evasive about how he got on in the interview, and wouldn't share his tape with Steve. Steve had said we were two of Yorkie's friends who he didn't know.

The sky darkened, and once again tendrils of fear crept around my stomach and squeezed. 

Once again, we ran through the story; we were innocents, misled by older, badder boys. With that settled, we went home and met Ash's Mum. As we were preparing the food, Ash saw the daily paper, with a picture of the car on the front page. He showed it to me, and my reaction must have shown on my face. Ash's Mum zeroed in on me and asked what was wrong; I explained it looked like Steve's car. She looked at our bruises, looked again at the paper, looked again at the bruises, and was distracted by a bang at the door. She opened up, and there stood two police officers.

John, Ash? I'm arresting you on suspicion of burglary, aggravated TWOC and criminal damage”

"Shit”.

Ash's Mum dropped the paper to the floor, her hands flying up to meet her O shaped mouth. The paper fluttered down, landing with the front page upwards. As I looked at my feet I caught sight of the newspaperp, highlighted vividly against the dark brown and amber swirls of the carpet. The leading article was a near-full page image of the Ford Sierra we had stolen, crumpled to the size of a Smartcar, in the living room of a bungalow, beneath a 68 point headline reading "YOB CULTURE".

A light hearted embarrassment from my pre-heroin days...

I don't really remember the first time I tried heroin; I remember though that I smoked it on a pipe. I was surrounded by long term addicts; prostitutes, the illiterate, the damaged, and they smoked it on pipes. I was in crackhouses licking the rock regularly, then tried heroin to stop the jitters. To be honest, I didn't get onto heroin properly until I had come out of rehab. I used sure, and had pinned once or twice, but after rehab, after leaving coke alone, I started using gear daily, smoking from foil. I've only been injecting for a period of months. My arms are ok (despite my veins being very deep naturally, which is annoying), and I'm content with my habit.

Why did I move onto the needle? Economy. My friend uses intravenously, I smoked, but it was costing me silly money and whenever smoke coiled off the foil, away from my tube, I saw pound signs going away. I also knew about the slam you get from banging it up, and did I ever want some of that. Hell yes.

Maybe the time I'll regret this will come. I doubt it though. I'm stable, sure, I use most days. When I'm rich,I use quite a lot, when I'm poor, I muddle along with little until I'm rich again. I have rules; I don't sell possessions, and my family doesn't go short. Should I break those rules, then I know I have a problem, and I need to stop.

Anyhow, I'm sick of being so serious, so I thought I'd delve back into history and tell you all about perhaps my most embarrassing sexual encounter, just to give you a bit of a laugh.

I was a bit of a late developer with girls; I had opportunities, but was always too much of a gentleman, and thought not taking advantage would get me further in the long run. Yeah, I was dumb. Anyhow, at University I started to make up the deficit, and for a brief period my youthful, slender, toned self was shagging for England. No girl was too pretty (or too ugly), all I needed was a heartbeat, a full set of limbs (well, at least 3 out of 4, “Hey baby, spread your leg!”) and the horn.

Mystic Rod and I had been out on the lash, and had somehow ended up in a taxi near our old student residences. We had no money, and as the taxi pulled to a halt, we ran for it. In the dark, we were safe from pursuit, but had no thought in our minds outside the need for escape. Fleeing headlong through the drizzle, I lost my footing on the peak of a slope, sliding in the mud and tumbling over, colliding with Mystic Rod and rolling us both down the hill at a rate of knots, our limbs intertwining, heads clashing, gathering mud until our momentum ran out and we were able to gather our thoughts.

I tried to stand, and after losing my footing once more I raised myself upright, leant on a tree, checked I was ok, and puked. I was covered in mud, slightly cut and I had a black eye already beginning to bloom on the left side of my face. Rod was in a similar state, and the two of us decided that we were miles away from home and we needed a cup of tea, and respite.

We limped over the road, and stumbled to a house nearby. This house was where my friend Mel lived, and we figured she'd take pity on us. She had before, when I'd been absolutely smashed, and we hoped she would again. She did. Opening the door to two mud-spattered, blood streaked, bruised and confused young men, she ushered us in, sat us down, sponged my wounds, made a tea, and listened to the two of us prattling.

The house was pretty big, and I was sitting with my back to the door of the living room. There were throws on the sofas, and the lighting was kept low, lava lamps in corners pushing patterns up the walls, and colouring the thick white smoke generating by the joints that were going round the room. The atmosphere was laidback, friendly, warm and cosy but the peace was suddenly shattered by a crash of the front door, keys dropping to the floor, before an apparition burst forth from the shadows, asked who the fuck we were, and slapped me round the head.

It took me a moment to recover from the shock, but when I did, I like to think I rose fluidly, in one motion achieving balance and turning on the invader, a lion reacting to a hunter, turning the tables on them with muscular, acute co-ordination. I stepped forward, grabbed the creature, pushed her across the hallway into the downstairs bathroom, forced her into the tub and switched on the taps. I laughed and left her dripping wet, swearing impressively in the bath, under the harsh, bright strip lighting.

I went back to my peaceful enclave, but seconds after sitting down, just long enough to establish I'd met Eve, Mel's housemate,  I was tugged up by the ear and before I properly knew what was happening, I was being kissed and bitten, and was kissing and biting, a soaking wet, athletic, attractive, psychopathic brunette. We left the room and fought our way upstairs, alternately slapping and kissing, tearing and biting, passion radiating from us as though we were a Japanese Nuclear facility. Our route to bed was described by discarded clothes, fallen furniture and water, mud and bloodspots on the walls.

We fell into bed, and things continued as they had, furious, unbridled, animal lust. Unfortunately, halfway through, there was a fanny fart from Eve. Ever the gentleman, I immediately denied responsibilty  “That wasn't me!”– this wasn't too bad, she laughed and we continued ripping each other apart. Moments later though, I felt windy and that imp living inside me, the childish, poor taste loving, scatalogical, inappropriate imp, forced out a fart. “That was, though” I cried out, boyish grin upon my chops.

The moment was lost. We carried on, but the passion was noticeably dimmed. There was no reprise either. Since then, I've learned my lesson. Fart jokes during sex just don't work.

My thoughts on recovery

I've been having a bit of a think over the weekend, prompted by Syd. I've been dipping in and out of his blog for a little while, and was a bit puzzled by someone who is not an addict/alcoholic being so focussed on recovery. I'd actually misunderstood the groups he goes to, and the reason behind it; I was unaware there was an organisation dedicated solely to the families of addicts, I'd never come across it before.

He was kind enough to write a really clear and lucid response, and in doing so he has given me quite a lot of food for thought, and has forced me to re-examine my own attitude to sobriety and cleanliness. I also appreciated his open-mindedness in stating “whatever works for you, works for you.”

I have the same belief as that – if someone wants absolute sobriety, great. If someone wants to have a few beers or lines, then fine, no drama, if someone wants to spend their life in a gutter, needing hits every four hours, selling everything other than organs to fund it (mainly because nobody would want a hardcore junkie's liver or kidneys!), then again, I pity them, but fine.

I suppose I should give a history of me here; or perhaps I should call it a brief “share.” I got into weed in my teens, and sold it before I smoked it. I'm a trader by nature, and I like buying and selling. I went to University and survived my time there spending 6 nights a week in clubs, including my own night, and had the franchise to sell ecstasy 3 nights, and did it while being followed at other clubs. I had a big business turning over around ￡18k a week, lived like a king and then, being a fucking clown, got a coke habit and ran my business and self into the ground. I fled, legs intact and bills paid (just), and resumed a straight life.

I missed the buzz though; I went from being whippet thin, fit (ish), always on the go, with money, and always needing to be in four places at once (one day, I remember as being my best day, I turned over bout ￡6k and had my phone ring over 200 times. It was hectic beyond belief; I was on foot, and must have covered seventeen miles or more). From that, to working a dull 9-5, having time, but no real money, well, it was a major downer. Still, I muddled along, enjoyed it, but began drinking really heavily. I've always been a boozer, but I used to dance it off, and in my mid twenties I got fat. This depressed me (still does!). I was very proud of being slender, and of my six pack.

Eventually, I started doing coke again, and my habit just came back on strong. I maxed my cards, had heart palpitations and fits, and knew I had to stop, but couldn't bring myself to ask for help; it was a secret, and hidden, and I panicked. To try and feel better, I started taking crack. Smart, huh.

Basically, as I wasn't on heroin, I thought I was OK. I lost my wife and son, and house, and then over the next 5 months things went really downhill. I ended up living on a sofa, with no power or hot water, dodging psychopaths, robbing, defrauding and scamming, got onto heroin and essentially my life imploded. I dropped off from work, and at that point I really was in trouble and at rock bottom. 

I was pushed into rehab by work, who fronted the money (about ￡6k, which was then repaid), stayed there, and it worked well for me in that I cleaned up, and I got a time out from the life I was in. This time out was vital, and allowed me to refocus. I never wanted a life of sobriety, but I wanted a life in which I was clear headed, lived as a normal person and then enjoyed myself appropriately. Coke and Crack ruined me; they're drugs I simply can't afford to touch; I don't like the affect of them, but I find them compulsive. The high is ace, for 30 seconds, then the night is awful and sleep becomes a stranger.

I never had a problem with heroin. I still don't. I like a drink on a Friday, and I like also to have a hit in the evening to relax. It's a choice, not an absolute necessity; I enjoy it, I like it, I look forward to it, but on days where I have no money, or if it's not available then sure, I'm disappointed, but I manage. I occasionally suffer a bit, but generally I am ok. I am prescribed morphine which helps keeps withdrawal away.

This works for me. I'm pretty content, and my life is pretty full. For example, April this year has consisted of; 5 weeks of work, around 13 hours a day, including travelling, plus emails and calls in the evening and weekend (I'm committed!). At weekends, one weekend has been a weekend of housework, gardening, general busying about maintaining the cars and suchlike. The next weekend was tied up with family visits to elderly relatives, and taking my son around to meet everyone. The next, this weekend just gone, Friday night, my team were plying locally so I went to the game, a couple of beers after, then drive home (a few years back I'd have been on the lash and not able to drive), then both Sat and Sun were taken up with attending birthday parties for my son's classmates. Next week I'm taking the family on a weekend break, and the weekend after that we're away with my parents, then seeing friends.

The reason I say this is to show that my life isn't some pitiful trek from dealer to squat to crackhouse, and to illustrate that not all users of heroin are crooks and thieves. 

During my spell in rehab, and when I left, I attended a lot of meetings; both AA and NA. I was kinda brainwashed into believing complete sobriety was the only way forward, but in my heart I didn't feel that. I felt “recovery” was just entering stasis, a frozen state in which I'd be denied the pleasure of a cold cider on a summer's day, or a beer at the game, or having to beat myself up if I had a pill at a club (which I haven't done as I never go out like that any more). I felt like I was being told I had a terminal disease; that I could prolong life, but with all the small pleasures removed. Drink and heroin hadn't ruined my life; crack, coke, depression and poor decision making ruined my life, and that's what needed to change.

When I expressed this at NA, and when I asked for a sponsor, and education, and guidance as to the steps, I found people were keen to pay lipservice, but not actually to help. I had a determination to be sober – if it's how to keep my life together, then great, but I found no real help in NA. 

I found the groups depressing, and miserable, and always focussed on the same few people, their problems, and their delight in being sober. I kept thinking, sure, you're sober, but your life is still shit. You live in a dump, you've no money, you're scruffy, you don't work, what has being sober brought you?

If you were from outside their immediate experience there was not a lot of understanding about, and I found the fellowship to be very superficial. I also didn't like the Higher Power thing, it was fuzzy, and I felt it took responsibility away from the addict. This may be what some people need, but I don't like it. I don't believe addiction is a lifelong illness. I don't believe we have no power over it. I do believe that it is something that is very hard to defeat, but it is mainly psychological. I know what a rattle is like, and it's awful, but when it's done, the psychological battle begins. I believe addiction makes us do things we wouldn't normally. It turns us into people we are not, and it's insidious. Thing is, it's us doing it. Every time we cook up, or chop a line, or roll a joint, or go into a bar, we have a choice. Whenever we see an open door, we can decide to break in, or walk past, or shut the door.

I left NA as I got no real help in trying to work the program, and I was only half convinced about it to begin with. I knew that I had to stay away from crack and coke (and I have, with very few exceptions), but I saw nothing wrong with enjoying myself with other things. When I explained this in group, it was sneered at, and people became almost evangelical, calling me a dry drunk, saying that even the thought was wrong, and so on and so forth. I fucked it off. I'm not being sneered at by a bunch of losers that see sobriety as the be all and end all. 

A day sober, great, well done but if you do nothing with that day, if you have no goals, no ambition, no desire to achieve anything, no desire to create something, nothing other than a desire to be clean, if you don't LIVE, well fuck you, I'm not taking your shit. I have goals; I like money, I like being busy, I like being the best at what I do, I'm a competitor, I want success, I want to lead, I want freedom to do what I like, when I like, I like to create things -  I write for my own pleasure (and having been out of practice for so long, it's hard work, and I'm not as good as I'd like to be. If and when I am, then a link will appear). I want to spend my life doing things, rather than spending it focussing on not doing things...

I found NA didn't work for me. Props to those it does work for, and I'm pleased for you, but I think I've found what works for me.

I have been reading Tori's blog recently. I feel for her, and her son, but his life reminds me of mine in that he is mixing with gangs, and people with no structure in their lives, who do nothing but crime, and drugs. The lifestyle is chaotic, with no structure, and I think that is more corrosive than drug use. I think that this life does lead to addiction, but as soon as the lifestyle stops, so does the addiction, in that form.

If life is manageable and structured, and interesting, then drug use can fit in round it, if you want it to. If life is chaos, with no structure or discipline, then you're in trouble. I know I'm always a hairs breadth from trouble. If I fuck up home, or work, then in an instant I'll be hustling. I have to maintain these things to have a nice life, and maintain my habit, so I do.

My typical day – wake up at 4am. Swear a bit, put the alarm on snooze, oversleep, curse, stumble downstairs, wash, iron shirt, dress, find keys, grab lunch, drink water, neck painkillers, go to work, get half way, have morning hit, pick up colleague, get to work. In the office until about 4.30pm, then back to my hometown, have hit, home for dinner. 7.00pm I put my son to bed, have another hit, then do my jobs reound the house, feed the rabbits, have half an hour or so with my wife, then bathe, and bed with a book by about 9pm. 

Perfectly normal, perfectly sensible, perfectly manageable.

I'd be interested to hear what you think.

Relapse...

Something just occurred to me; my first relapse after rehab. It's a pretty big relapse really, it's been 29 months now! I left rehab absolutely sober, going to meetings and doing all that stuff. Then, one night, I was out of rehab. I met some friends and after a few hours of abstinence I raised  a pint of cider to my lips and -BANG- all gone in one go!

We were in a pretty scruffy pub; fruit machines blinked in corners, paint-covered and heavy booted workers who'd finished their day's labours shouted to each other, a handful of old men and cripples sat separately, nursing their pints and trying hard to prolong their pleasure or perhaps, delay the inevitable further misery of going home.

I had a bit of dough, enough for a few beers and sat back to relax. As I did so, a very pissed, very offensive man came in. He shouted the odds at people and then finally, after insulting everyone, asked us to buy him a pint, with his money, as the bar wouldn't serve him. It was tempting to refuse, but we spotted a free beer. We accepted, and as he opened his wallet a glow seemed to emanate from it. Our faces bathed in light reflected from the glorious spectacle in front of us, Jay and I looked at each other and, as our eyes locked, a pact was made. A crisp twenty was handed to us, drinks were bought, he sat down outside and we followed, proclaiming fellowship and good health.

Jay and I worked hard to establish trust and rapport, a difficult task to complete with the inebriated and obnoxious, but we managed it. Conversation flowed, and we were asked to score him some weed. We sold him an Oxo cube for twenty quid.

Later, as he bought more drinks, we began to spike him with vodka, rendering him incapable of anything more than a general anger against the world. This anger would soon find new targets, as his new best friends were preparing to betray him.

The vodka affected our target badly, and he began to want to retire home for the night. Jay and I helped, taking the strain as he rose, staggered and toppled forwards, tumbling towards a face breaking impact, same as a statue of Saddam on Liberation Day. Saving him from impact allowed us to take hold of his arms and we walked him forward towards the taxi rank, propping him over our shoulders. He looked like a drunken Jesus being carried from the cross, but the Crucifixion was only beginning.

A taxi slowed and pulled into the side of the road. We pushed him into it, he got the address out, and we left him, waving him off at the kerb. If he'd have looked closely, or had the ability to see properly, he's have noticed that in my right hand, I held his wallet, and £290.

I walked back to the pub, bought a round, split the dough with Jay and then quietly slid out of the back door, made a call, and went to meet my man. 

That was the last crime I committed. I'm not proud of it, and I've come a long way since. Still, it's a fair representation of what I was, and what makes it worse is that I didn't do it from need, I just did it for a laugh, because I could, and of course, for the money.

I changed my friends afterwards, and have no contact with any of them any more. It's not where I want to be. Sometimes though, I miss the buzz, the kick, the excitement of running about the place, having to do a million things at once, and all on a knife's edge.

Finally, I post...

It's been a while since I wrote anything; things have been hectic here and life has taken over a lot more of my time; although I've still had an opportunity to browse other blogs, I've had nowhere near the time necessary to even consider writing.

Even now, I'm lacking a bit in inspiration; times have been hard. I've gone from being on top of the world with sales coming out of my ears, to struggling. Work owe me money, I'm generally skint, my clutch and fly wheel are dying, my other car needs a service and the aircon fixing, I've had to pay for my summer holiday, I'm supposed to be out this weekend, I've two weekend breaks coming up, and whichever way I turn there's a load of bills piling up. My fuel bill alone is £600 a month, for both cars. Gear is also hugely expensive, and I've had to try and chop the habit down – I had some good scores in London at good prices (especially right now), but out in the sticks where I am, 3 hours from London, people are charging a tenner a point. It's good gear, I did .2 in a hit the other day and I keeled over, waking a bit later, really confused, with my head resting on my steering wheel, drof imprinted into my forehead.

I've also been unable to walk, limping around on crutches, bent over like an old man with the cares of the word on his shoulders. It's been agonising, and it seems not only do I have one chronic knee problem, but it may have been joined by arthritis. I'm 31, for fuck's sake. Using crutches is shit; both my wrists were shattered when I came off a bike a few years back, my wrists are weak and trying to hop about is not easy. I drive a manual too, so I've been having to lift my leg on and off the pedals. Changing gear and braking has hurt like hell, and rush hour was no fun. I'm looking at trading cars though, I had my eye on either an Audi RS4 or a BMW 318/525, but I may take the auto version just in case this happens again.

Work's been a nightmare; I pride myself on being Top Salesman. I've hit a wall; everything I touch is turning to shit. Things haven't been like this for 2 years – I'm having to dig deep and work harder than ever, but it's not happening for me right now. Things have to change, and quick, or I'll not be able to afford my family and habit together. Everything costs more now – fuel and food especially, and I don't want to have to economise there – it's not luxurious now. I'm tempted to do my usual trick of buying a load of gear and getting a mate to flog it for a 50/50 split, but it's dangerous territory. Selling drugs is much more addictive than using them, and it can take over your life. I already have two lives to live at once, never mind a third!

On the flipside, my homelife is really good right now, my son is really happy at school, my wife is in a good mood with me and there are no bruises or tracks that are hugely visible on my arms right now (I've been hitting veins cleanly for once, and have had a streak of luck registering immediately!), so I can wear t-shirts without drawing undue attention. I've also rented myself a  campervan for the summer so I can bum round Cornwall for a few weeks with my family, relaxing and doing fuck all. Where the hell I'm going to find privacy to have a hit though, I don't know. I never do it in front of my wife or son; it's my thing, my secret, and all the more satisfying for it.

Now I've broached the topic a bit, there have been a fair few interesting discussions about drug legalisation here in the UK; I know where I sit, and always have, drugs should be legal. We should not be putting one of the world's largest industries in the hands of criminals; we should not be rewarding lowlife kids for selling gear; they make a lot of money, tax-free, with no real effort. It encourages violence, and because so many thick kids are involved, there are silly incidents. It suggests that learning, education and hard work are not necessary, and it puts obscene amounts of money into the hands of crooks.

I think the drug trade is despicable. I think massive harm is done to addicts and users through unscrupulous suppliers. I think there is a lot of money wasted by the government and police chasing people that don't matter. We allow criminality by refusing to legislate.

Thing is, once I believed drugs should be legal for these reasons, and because I was a dealer, and because I took a lot of drugs.  Now I don't; I see things through jaundiced eyes; drugs, and all that goes with them, are seedy. They're slightly squalid, and I am not a big fan of them. I'm finding more and more that I don't really approve of drugs, and I don't like most addicts; none of my friends are junkies. Still, I'm often to be found tying off my arm and having a hit. Just another contradiction. I'm driven, and in sales, but I take downers when coke is the drug of choice of most of my colleagues. Maybe I'm just a weirdo.

Some of the best nights of my life have been on drugs. But they've also been with great people. Now I understand that it wasn't just the  drugs, it was the fact that I was young, excited and with a group of friends. My friends have scattered around the world, and times have changed. I am no longer carefree; I have responsibilities. I'd love not to have, but, although I say that, I don't believe it. My responsibilities keep me grounded, but rather than being a burden borne upon my shoulders, crushing me,  they're roots tied to my legs, giving me stability and strength.

I don't really take drugs, other than heroin, which I take daily (unless I'm broke, when I substitute MSTs to prevent withdrawal getting any sort of grip), and have done for a couple of years. I like heroin, and I hate withdrawal. My habit isn't awful, maybe .6g a day, but being starved of gear does hurt. 

Drugs are harmful, no question, but we should be free to do what we like with our bodies. We should pay tax on it, and we should not have to hide; we should be in the daylight. Most people aren't bad, and the chaos is a consequence of the illegality.

One of the guys who was keen to keep prohibition in place was a writer from the News of the World. He used all the cliches, most notably the concerns about children being exposed to drugs. Doesn't he understand that his children will be exposed to drugs anyway, but from a source dripping with a dubious glamour. The illegality is attractive, as is the culture surrounding it; it's a dangerous place to be a tourist though, and even more dangerous a world to be a fully committed part of.

I don't want my son exposed to drugs, but he will be. I can just advise him, and hope that he doesn't find the same attraction to the neon, the mess, the unpredictability, the dirt, the hookers, the dealer, the dancers, the pimps,  the bars and clubs, the same appeal in reflecting on life, walking home just before the dawn, seeking beauty in sodium lights and drizzle as I did. Imagine how legality and official recognition would remove some of this appeal.

Also - money! I paid £!4,000 tax last year. Imagine how much that could be reduced if we paid VAT on our gear. Also, lower court, police and prison costs. Win/Win!

There's also the humanitarian aspect – bringing us into the light can only help those who need and want help get it. Also, so many people won't be criminalised, robbed and ripped off.

One point the News of the World journalist raised was that of drug tourists – I'd never considered this, and still haven't really, but would it really matter?

Positive thinking and a happy life.

Over the last two or three days I've been having a bit of a rethink, and trying to work out where I stand on a lot of things, but most particularly on myself, my desires and my achievements and ambitions. This has been prompted by a two day sports psychology and motivational seminar.

I was expecting it to be a load of vacuous nonsense. Surprisingly, it wasn't, it was very interesting and thought provoking. The main thrusts were about looking at things positively, not using any negative language and also taking absolute responsibility for our own actions and decisions. Some of you may be familiar with NA, and notice one or two similarities. If so, you're quite right; there are many similarities between the NA creed and the psychological techniques we were shown last week.

As you'll know, I have a major downer on NA; the concept is great, but the people are generally losers, and although personal responsibility is preached, it seems to be devolved to a poorly defined higher power. Anyway, my intention isn't to rail against NA, or those that benefit from it, but to talk about the initial impact this training course has had on me.

In my initial post here, I mentioned that I had a tendency to melancholy, I've known I have many good things in my life, but they've never seemed to matter. I've never really appreciated what I have, but have bemoaned what I don't have, and have lingered on my mistakes and compounded them. Every problem I've ever had has been of my own making, and I am now of the opinion that I was never properly depressed (for a brief period 5 years back I was on anti-depressant meds) but merely wasn't dealing with my problems properly. I've never lived in the moment and savoured it, it's always been "what's next, what's next?"

I've always accepted responsibilty for my actions, but have seldom accepted responsibility that my choices are my own, and not made for me by others. It's changed my outlook over night, and I have a very positive  view on my future right now.

Work, and money, is mine for the taking. I could very well own an Alfa Brera by the end of October, outright own it, not on credit.

My home life can be tidied up, and I can have what I want, if I simply have the courage to make some difficult decisions.

Simply, my attitude and approach to things will determine it's outcome; if I look for the positives rather than dwelling on the negatives, life will be easier to manage and I will have a higher chance of getting the outcome I want.

And the effect of this on my habit? Well, I'm 48 and a half hours clean! I've had a couple of MSTs (less than half what I usually take daily for joint pain). I'm not desperate for a hit. I'm lucky - I use about 2-3 bags a day, when I have dough, and although I do rattle and cluck, though I do get the sweats and the tiredness and the inability to function properly, I'm never completely debilitated. I get through it. I'm not trying to clean up though, I just didn't have any time free, I was busy with my family all weekend (which is much more important). However, before I hit the gym tonight I shall be making a detour to see a friend (well, more some idiot kid that doesn't really know what he's doing), picking up some heroin and putting it into my new favourite vein. And I am visualising a lovely hit, so that, using my newly acquired positive thinking, is what I shall expect to have.

I can't wait.

EDIT: I sat down earlier. I was warm, and relaxed, with an edge of anticipation. I unwrapped the little black bomb and tipped half of it into a steri-spoon. Tearing open a sachet, I added as little citric as I could get away with, shook the spoon and created a nice powdery blend of yellow and brown. I took a moment to look at it, added some water, began to cook and savoured the moment as the scent worked it's way into my nostrils, just as the liquid would soon work it's way into my veins and my soul. I filtered, flicked and readied myself for what was to come.

It took a while to find a vein, mine aren't prominent. I tapped and pumped, eventually locating my new favourite entry spot. Bang. In first time. Plunger out a little more after loosening the torniquet, just to make certain I'm still in (I don't want to miss!), then shoot through nice and quick.

Lovely job.

A big day (part two)

I never made it to the police station. Just didn't happen. I felt too rough to go. I'd shaved, or rather plucked my face with a horribly blunt razor before vomiting and going back to my duvet. I didn't feel as though I was in any condition to surrender myself to the police; I was barely there mentally, and my focus was on getting through each two minute task. I was preoccupied with my meeting with my boss, and really, I just wanted a bit of time unconscious, and warm, so I slept.

The only reason I went to see my boss was because he owed me two thousand pounds, in bonuses and salary. I knew I was going to be fired. Two thousand pounds is a decent sum of money; it's a flat, for months, plus food while I find  a new job. I'd be lying thoug, if I said I was thinking of that. I was thinking of leaving with a load of money, getting warm, and getting smashed out of my brains. It would not have lasted long, and then I'd have been worse off than before and I'd have been on the rob and scrounging, ticking gear and hustling, a tightrope slip from real trouble.

I have a phrase for this sort of behaviour, borne out by friends who get their giro (state benefit), splurge, then eke a living/habit from nothing thereafter - I call it "King for a day, Cunt for a week syndrome."

Things didn't pan out like I thought., My boss said he wasn't going to pay me, and there was no job for me, unless I cleaned up my act. I love what I do. It's a niche field, but I'm in the top 5 or 10, worldwide in my sector. I am very very good at it, and I thoroughly enjoy it. My job gives me self-respect, identity and purpose (and because I determine my own income, and I am always cash hungry), it focuses me like nothing else. I was shocked - I expected to be fired, which was bad, but I thought I'd be paid off, which was good (for a little while). This was bad news. I then got told that my company would front me the grand a week needed for a residential rehab, on condition I repaid it. No-one expected me to complete rehab; they expected tonot get the money back, I expected to mess it up, and wasn't convinced I needed help (or couldn't admit it to myself, being proud [but not too proud to hustle and rob - I took pride in being able to survive doing it]).

It was fixed that the next day, I'd answer bail and then check into rehab.

That night, I went out on the beer, met a mentally ill (paranoid schizophrenic) man who was also an addict, and frightened of demons. He'd just got a £160 giro; I, with the help of a friend, convinced him I was a devil, and dead behind the eyes (I've had several people tell me that there is nothing behind my eyes, that I'm soul-less and potentially a monster. I disagree, all the girls I've loved, and been loved by, tell me my eyes are bright, lively and mischevious - maybe both groups are right, or maybe people just project their thoughts onto what they see). Anyway, I took his money, and his phone, and got high.

The next day, my bail was answered, I was officially charged with fraud, and I began rehab. After telling porkies and getting an excessive methadone script, free of charge (which was ace!)

Three months later, I was 100% clean. For a bit, anyway.

Big day ahead (part one)

I woke up on the sofa that I had been calling home for the past two months, feeling pretty rough. I'd been sofa-surfing for that long since being evicted from my previous flat with zero notice, as a result of multiple complaints from other residents of the building. They'd quite reasonably become fed up with the constant noise and parties, and things had come to a head.

I'd been caning whatever drugs I could find for a long time, but had a real problem with crack, using until I ran out of money, then thieving and defrauding others to get more. I'd also got a heroin habit, although it was pretty minimal (but growing rapidly).

This time, when I woke up, I had to face my boss. I'd not been in the office for three weeks or so, the stories about me were legion, and lurid, and I'd been called in for a last minute meeting as to my future. I was their top performer, but this was counterbalanced by my unreliability and ever more ludicrous excuses as to why I was absent (when I bothered to make one up).

It took me a while to get out of my duvet; it was late September, and the flat I was in was on the top floor of a block; a sauna in summertime but, due to the shape of the complex acting as a wind tunnel, a freezer in autumn and winter, my breath clouding in front of me and leading me through the flat.

I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with water, cold, of course. I had no money, and no power. Light was by candles, warm washes and baths were a thing of the past, and life was pretty much not worth living. To add to everything, not only was I trying to shake off that washed out, thick headed, heavy feeling of a crack comedown combined with a hangover, not only was I beginning to rattle, but I had to meet my boss, and as if that wasn't enough, I had to answer my bail, to be charged with fraud.

I leant into the sink, washed with watered down shower gel, improvised shaving foam and, as I scraped several weeks beard from my face with the bluntest of razors, I looked to the day ahead with little enthusiasm.

The extra mile makes all the difference

I live in one county, but work in another. I usually pick up clean works in my hometown, from two or three different chemists, but recently I had cause to go and get some pins in the city I work in. I was amazed at the difference.

I would have thought that a needle exchange was a needle exchange was a needle exchange, but apparently not. In my hometown you ask for everything you need, as you need it, and it's provided for you in individually sealed, single use, sterile, packages. I get pins, vit c sachets, sterile 2ml water bottles, alcohol wipes, and a spoon with filter. Everything the healthy heroin user needs to remain that way.

In the city I work in, things are different. You ask for works, you get a nice grey resealable bag, a leaflet explaining briefly about safe injecting, ten pins, some swabs, and a sharps bin. No vit c, no water, no spoons, no filters. In short, absolutely the minimum possible. From my limited experience in London, I believe that it's the same there.

There's a huge difference in the two services; my hometown gives everything you need to be healthy without having to mess about trying to get vit c, spoons, filters, and all the rest of it. It makes life really quick, and really easy.

I doubt it costs a massive amount more than just giving the minimum, but providing everything we need to be healthy makes a big difference to me (and other users). Sure, it makes life simpler, and the time from picking up works to getting a hit is minimised (and I won't play down the importance of that), but in addition to that, it makes me feel as though I'm human.

I know it's a bit of a hobby-horse of mine, but I get really pissed off by people looking down at me, as though I'm some sort of lowlife because I use gear. The fact that my local council values users' health enough to provide sterile equipment really impresses me, and almost makes my council tax worth paying.