I was very lucky when it came to drugs. I never had to buy them, as the sort of boyfriends I picked usually had their own.
They say if you remember the seventies, you weren’t there. I dimly recall graduating from university with a healthy fear of knitting and an honours degree in English literature, starting my career in publishing, hanging out in lots of wine bars and pubs watching rock-n-roll bands, and playing with boys. I managed to make it through to near the end of the decade, by which time I was engaged to a non-drug-taking chef. He was a nice bloke who really hit his stride a few years later when disco became all the rage. He made the best pepper steaks and scrambled eggs. If we had stayed together, I might have been drug-free but my cholesterol levels would have been life threatening. We both came to our senses with six weeks to spare and ended the engagement, and I went back to my rather debauched single life.
I never became dependent on drugs, for which I have to thank some power greater than my will. But I did usually indulge whenever they were on offer.
Being a control freak, I don’t like to get wasted. That’s not to say it hasn’t happened, or that it doesn’t still happen occasionally, but it’s not my intention to get out of it. So, drugs no longer have any appeal for me.
Besides, these days, the only drug any potential boyfriend is likely to be dependent on is Viagra.