Apologies
for the Honda Accordiality but I went through a phase of ruthlessly abusing certain substances. When I was in my mid-twenties I had foolishly accepted an invitation to go on holiday with my family to Spain. My folks are richer than Croesus and you just can't turn that kind of luxurious freebie down. Well, I can't.

The reason I say 'foolishly' is that I was at that juncture addicted to heroin. Trips abroad for the illicit addict are always problematic. If you wish to detox but can't afford to go private, then your first options are to go the GP and either be treated by him, if he is kind and knowledgeable enough to do so, or to be referred on to a local drop-in.

Becoming a state-sanctioned junkie means that you can take your methadone or other opiate substitute abroad to most, though by no means all, countries with an official letter from your doctor and one from the HO if necessary. But even then there always hovers at the back of your mind the dread possibility that your luggage might get lost or your precious green syrup accidentally spilt at any juncture, leaving you a sweating, vomiting wreck for the rest of your trip.

Also, if you do down this official route, you can kiss goodbye to a whole raft of potential jobs not to mention the possibility of affordable life-insurance later in life. I did the sensible thing instead, acquiring from a Philipino interweb pharmacy approx £400 worth of generic dihydrocodeine tablets, which were far smaller in size than their officially produced cousins, and a fetching shade of green rather than the more usual white. I needed about 15 tablets a day to feel normal and the holiday was for a week, which made for a very, some might say suspiciously, bulky wallet.

This being pre 9/11 we didn’t have to empty our pockets into x-ray crates but I was patted down by a security bloke after my belt set of the alarm. He pulled out my wallet and opened it up. My parents were looking back at me, wondering what the hold-up was. I actually felt my bowels loosen. “What’s in here then,” he said, stroking the bulging change pocket with his thumb. I shrugged and tried to smile nonchalantly. He popped open the little catch and peered in, then, for reasons I shall never know – especially that given their size and colour these pills would have looked like E’s to the uninitiated – he carefully closed it, said, “That’s all okay then,” and handed my wallet back to me.

I searched his face for a hint of irony or sympathy or ...anything but he just turned to check the next glut of through-coming travellers.

Thank you Stansted man. I got to eat a lot of lobster in the sun. And I'm clean now, too. *Spins wheels with Halford 'caps and sticks a few digits up the supermodel in the passenger seat*
(Happybara The jungle came alive and took him, Fri 20 Aug 2010, 16:03, 1 reply)

click
Good on you for getting clean and not following up with addiction to lobster.
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Sat 21 Aug 2010, 9:20, closed)