If I’d tried acid at university like everyone else I know, I imagine it would have been sloppily spontaneous – getting high for the hell of it on a random, rainy Wednesday morning in front of Blockbusters, say. But I was a square back then. Still am. But, in a surprising turn of events, this year, at 42, I changed my mind.
The protocol for my late-life drug dabble was a rigorously planned, ludicrously middle-class experience with other friends my husband, Sam*, and I had met on the school run. Yes, that’s right: through our children on the school run. It took the form of a dinner party hosted one Saturday night at Kate* and Adam’s* stylish semi. With the kids packed off to their grandparents early, kick-off was at…