Why was I babbling about soup kitchens? Only minutes had passed — I knew that because it’s about five minutes to Temple in London by minicab from the laboratory I had just left near Russell Square. Yet surely my researcher and I had been in the cab for half an hour and surely his worried silence had lasted all that time? Dalí-like, the clock had gone all rubbery.
With some heightened sense of mood I knew he was worried: worrying that he should have warned me off. And here I was now, babbling about soup kitchens and due at my partner’s place for dinner with his boss in an hour, and my mind kept stalling and all idea of time had gone elastic. How was I going to hold it all together when I couldn’t hold my own train of thought for ten seconds?
This was my lowest point. I was truly stoned and it wasn’t amazing and it wasn’t cool, it was just horrible. I felt stupid, I was battling to keep control and didn’t want anyone to know.
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