Westcroft Square, Mr Jones!
Returning from our walk through a magical park in Ravenscourt at dead of
night, why the delay before we were let in? No matter. Entering the dim
room Hilton and I watched, mildly curious, as the door was resealed with
masking tape... perhaps, I thought, glancing round, the same as had been
used to line the window-frames. The smell was not the same as when we'd
left some hours before - no, definitely not... We found ourselves
somewhere to sit amongst the piles of shabby shadows; and as we settled
down and let the room return to silence, a hissing sound gained in volume,
coming from the corner where the old black cooker quietly moulded.
Jim, who claimed he never slept, realising we were tripping and
therefore alert to the slightest nuance of the universal vibe, knew he
couldn't keep it from us indefinitely. "We're committing suicide", he
said nonchalantly (indicating Tim and himself), obviously feeling that as
the current host, it was only polite he offer some sort of explanation.
Hilton and I looked at each other, and failing to keep ourselves under
control simultaneously exploded into fits of giggles. We were both
aware that etiquette called for a more sober response - Tim especially was looking
quite tense - but being cosmic adventurers, intrepid explorers of the
wilder dreams and nightmares, psychedelic heroes from the rough and
ready Northern provinces... we guffawed, rolling about in hysterics.
"F' fucks sake, can't you lot make less racket?" grumbled Ernie, who was
lying in the centre of the floor in a sleeping bag with only the top of
his bald head protruding - about which Hilton was becoming increasingly
intrigued. He was having fantasies of it being a giant boiled egg and
was winding Ernie up, menacingly waving a spare shoe just above
the shining pate. "C'mon man, be reasonable... it's not personal", he
insisted, excitedly describing the potential sight of liberated yellow
brains flowing out across the lard-embossed carpet
"Shut up" repeated Ernie a little more agitatedly, "or else you'll have
Howard, who was lying next to him, stirred, propped himself up on one
elbow, and looked around, blinking... "Gassing yourself is quite a good
way to commit suicide", he said to nobody in particular, "I've tried it
myself", and he disappeared back under his blanket.
It must have been getting close to danger level. Jim was looking weirder
than usual and was swaying slightly, though this could have been the
effects of long-term sleep deprivation. Anyway, the strain was beginning to
show. Hilton and I shrugged - what was one to do?... Well, roll a joint
obviously.... (but you can't smoke a joint without lighting it... and with one
huge flash and a big whoosh, all immediate danger was over).
- Weed (June 1996 - last edited 20 October 2019)
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