THE HEADSTRONG ADDICT

Well hello, and thank you for passing through.  You may already know that the first 22 posts of this blog (Jan to April 2013), are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can read this here, or get it as an ebook or kindle on amazon, if you prefer.  If you do, please leave a review if you can.  And so, here is today's post, about the casual loss of over a decade, and how this can be put right...

THE HEADSTRONG ADDICT

It sounds like a confessional from a twelve-step meeting, 'I was too full of self-will, too headstrong, thought I knew best...but then I got honest, got with the program, surrendered to a higher power of my own understanding.'  But how can anyone sift the headstrong from the addict.  Maybe headstrong people become addicts, because, for whatever reason, they want their thrills quick, effective, and very, very noticeable.  Then, with their first reference point in place, all subsequent attempts at the summit are measured against it, for intensity, value for money, and immediacy.  They now become even headstronger, as another layer of impatience settles like silt.  Ah, how this escalates, as our hedonistic hero strives, stretches, falls and flails, for the next mythic peak, time after time, month after month, and so on...until, skidding to a slow halt like an Eskimo on gritted, cracking ice, they come to rest, wounded, angry, tired, and bewildered.  Then what does our once-headstrong hero do?

Pause, regroup, bitterly berate oneself for squandering all those years, friendships, possible relationship, jobs, money, health, and so much more.  How do you start redeeming the loss?  With more impatience than one's ever thrown at a set of situations, and an angry sense that one deserves it now, one's suffered, sinned, but repented, as if this is tantamount to so many stamps on your coffee-shop loyalty-card, entitling you to a drink of your choosing, any size.  Ah, the righteous fury of the sinner than repenteth.  Addiction is like a trickster-angel, plucking at the tops of mountains to make the summits seem even more seducing than before.  Once an innocent explorer, now, enthralled to the idea that the ladder goes on for ever, you negotiate the valleys and troughs, whilst sizing up the next summit, wishing yourself away, but acting like you want to stay.

And I guess most ranges don't just end with a big old mountain, as some kind of finale, but they crease, fold, and falter into lessening climes, more accessible and amenable to all.  This is where the headstrong yeti must learn to get on, at a different pace, learn a differently punctuated dance, hold to new ideals, ones it may or may not recognise.  It can feel like the old lows, those agonising daylong comedowns, have now just been diluted, scattered like seeds across rolling meadows, where the general whisper is that good weather, and time, will make it all worthwhile.  What to do with that impulse for instant yields?  Should we find another drug, go GM, go Jesus, somehow rad?

The first few seeds may be watered with tears, though nowhere near enough to germinate and grow.  No, part of this harvest is luck.  Can these people, scattered liberally about, be right?  Can there be virtue in waiting, investing, rather than lunging at the one-armed bandit with whatever change you have?  They never experienced that rush, can't draw the comparisons I can draw.  Am I to trust this world I left, shunned, and rejected for so long?  Was I ill, or just too full of self-will?  Was I done to, or did I do?

And slowly, as the hurricane of self-doubt unspools like a slow giant, whispering its last, I find myself, sitting here, at a west London window, slightly open, with traffic growling, and the warmth of my radiator reassuring me I'm looked after.  I still have my hi-fi, because it was too heavy to take to Cash Converters...and they wouldn't have given me much for it anyway.  Pink Floyd on the hi-fi, a CD given me by a friend I met in the thick of my addiction, and so maybe even during those years, some good things were stepping into place, waiting, patiently, kindly, to see if I wanted to stagger from those last baleful blusterings of a storm of my own making.  Time passes.  It takes untold strength to not move with it.

And that, you'll be relieved to hear, is all I have to say today.

Thanks for dropping by.  Back tomorrow.

P.S.  Here is a youtube link to one of songs, if you'd like to hear it...  Get Out Of My Room

CLOSE SHAVE

Hello, and thanks for dropping by.  You might know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here, or buy as an ebook or kindle on amazon, if you're into that kind of thing.  From then on, this blog is the frequent musings of myself, Benjamin of Turnham Green, with pictures and songs thrown in, as a free treat.  So, here is today's treat...

CLOSE SHAVE

Even a year free from the tawdry presence of crack in my life, I am still eminently capable of cornering myself into desperate states that leave me exposed to the old preoccupations and temptations.  I don't mean this to be a doom-laden prophesy for those still enmeshed, because I wouldn't exchange now for then; but I guess it's worth noting, for myself, and maybe others, that things come and go in waves, and lack of focus can lead one blurrily into dangerous places.  And here is an example...

Yesterday, being Tuesday, I received my four-weekly allowance for being 'disabled', for which thanks.  Time was when I couldn't get through a 'money-day' without scoring within minutes of the money going into my account, even if this was at two in the morning.  Somehow, as I hope my book shows, this pattern of instant compulsion fractured, slowed, and eventually broke, with a lot of effort, help, and luck.  And the last year or so has been the best I've had in a decade or more...far from painless or perfect, but better...I'm still alive, which is more than a lot of people can say who've fallen prey to dangerous compulsions.  However, yesterday, Tuesday, I found myself in one of my tussles, in which I, the protagonist in recovery, wrestle and squirm in a sack of my own making, blindly fumbling and flailing for the knotted top, and a means of escape.  How did I get into this sack?  Did I not notice myself climbing in?

It's a slow and subtle sack, living like a beanbag in the corner of the room, which, with the slow calculation of an hour-hand, slides across the floor towards me, seeming not to move at all, but, within a week or two, is at my side, and ready to engulf.  Its perfidious progress is punctuated by little markers in the days and weeks before the disastrous denouement.  One day I might desperately want to start writing a song, but, come teatime, when I've done nothing, I'm virtually paralysed with self-loathing and a sense of wasted years, heaped upon me like so much twisted landfill, stinking, stolid, and never to be recycled.  This feeling, which I had fifteen years ago, even before the crack came along to stall things further, has been my constant keeper, sighing and wagging its finger every time I fall short of my perhaps unrealistic aspirations.  And it's not just artistic pursuits, like music or writing, that can heckle me as I stand unrehearsed before them.  It's the mounting pressure of days unspent in anyone's company, rendering rusty the cogs that used to turn so fluidly within, the nights spent resentfully in a ragged bed, still dwelling on the fantasies I used to harbour twenty years ago, which then still had a grain of potential, but twenty years on seem cobweb-clad...I, a fly upon them.

Even success can be a deceiver, suggesting that I've achieved so much in the last year, bought that chair, those clothes, even a new keyboard, and can now afford a little holiday...after all, I've got a few blank days ahead, no particular commitments, and my overdraft's nowhere near as bad as it was.  Ah yes, success, like Iago, can whisper you to death.  And it's usually after such lapses that someone rings the next morning, a friend, wanting some assistance with something, just when you've broken the bank, and your head feels like it's been steamrollered.

So there's a thought or two as to why I don't think I'll take that holiday today.  Perhaps I can think of it like this...using all the time was like bobbing along the seabed, crawling like an urchin, catching the occasional morsel of rotten tuna flesh, and believing this, at least in the moment of consumption, to be fair compensation for a month of sand and darkness.  Now, I swim with the dolphins, socially, intelligently, smilingly, nearer the light, with plankton-aplenty to feast on.  To fall from here would be a dark and sinister descent.  I've had a glimpse of the light, a taste of that plankton, and even joined a shoal.  Is it worth sacrificing all that, just for a taste of that rotten tuna flesh, and a flash from a bioluminescent squid as it hovers nearby, preying, waiting?  Would I ever rise again?

No tuna were harmed in the writing of this post.

Here is a link to a song of mine on youtube, which also has an aquatic theme...I'd love it to get up to a hundred listens...  Revenge Of The Sirens

And that's pretty much all I've got to say today.  Thanks for reading.  Back tomorrow, promise.

WHY AREN'T I USING CRACK THESE DAYS?

Hello, and thanks for dropping by.  As you may know, the first 22 posts of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here or buy on amazon, if you do that sort of thing.  Nowadays, the blog is the fairly frequent musings of myself, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here are today's thoughts...

WHY AREN'T I USING CRACK THESE DAYS?

Good question.  I was bewildered in the thick of that horrid addiction, but now that I'm not, I'm equally vexed.  At the nadir of it, overdraft large, skin reptilian, fridge'n'cupboard empty, I couldn't understand how I'd become so hardwired to do it, regardless of the consequences.  Maybe it was because I was at the bottom, so what did it matter if I continued digging?  Maybe I was an ill thing, an addict, diseased by that threefold malady, in body, mind, and spirit.  Or perhaps I was just choosing to do it, all those times, regardless of the aftermath.  I don't know.  I just know that I did.  And that's perhaps enough, because, at the time, I disowned it.  I may not have called it a disease, and disowned it that way, but I certainly didn't allow for the fact that, bottom-line, I was choosing to use.  But when does a choice become a compulsion, and so forgivable?

Fact is I was thinking all this even then, month in, month out, year after year.  I could say 'the addict' enjoyed it, the toing and froing of an intellectual joust, the linguistic intricacies of a subtle debate, because it meant I was more concerned with writing a manifesto than putting my pledges into practice.  And so, falcon and falconer, on I arced, self-enticed.

I had no moment of clarity to make me change, although maybe I'm having a slow epiphany, which is perhaps safer than those Damascene revelations that those in a hurry require.  One year, I was using at every possible opportunity, week in week out, and then, somehow, I don't even remember when, I got a few weeks clean, of everything, not just crack.  Then I waded back into the mire, stayed there for a good eight months or so, and then, whispering to self that something needed doing, I referred back to previous successes and slotted in couple of months clean, and then, a bit more determination here, a well-timed phone-call there, and a few little things bought for the flat, mostly on ebay, I began to physically see and feel the results around me.  My mind was just healthy enough to register the gain, and it was palpable enough to cling to, nurture, albeit pretty bitterly.  Now, somehow, after over six months clean of crack, with another six months before that, I seem to have a choice, and I seem to be choosing not to bother.  And here is a list of some of the things I've gained:

a denim armchair, with side-pockets, from Tesco Direct
a shaggy blue and light blue rug, with tufty crescents in tasteful aquamarine
a new keyboard, to play tunes on
a little stack of Doctor Who DVDs
a cupboard bulging with Heinz Big Soups, and other long-term bankers
and, with an additional antidepressant in the mix, some days I almost feel like my old self, from twenty years ago, and beyond, and sometimes this is dizzying...

...but I don't think anyone ever died of dizziness.

So here's a link to one of my songs, if you fancy listening...
Revenge Of The Sirens

And that's all I have to say today.  Thanks for dropping by.

SURVIVED ANOTHER CHRISTMAS

Hi, and thanks for dropping in.  You might know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read it here, or buy the ebook on amazon, if you do that kind of thing.  From then on, the blog is the fairly frequent musings of me, Benjamin Of Turnham Green.  You can also hear my songs on youtube, and there's a link to one of them here...



Here's the song link...   Get Out Of My Room



SURVIVED ANOTHER CHRISTMAS



  I haven't been very honest - I'm not even sure if I am being now.  I nearly used crack over Christmas, with the obligatory heroin chaser to help with the comedown - one follows the other, as bleach follows shit.
  I rang a dodgy number on Christmas Eve night, but when they rang back, I didn't answer, and switched off the phone.  That in itself was a minor miracle.  It was almost as if I had to go to the edge of the precipice, just to take a look...the view was more frightening than appealing, but desire hides even in fear, I find.
  Even on Christmas Day, I felt like putting feelers out, and a Christmas past haunted me something rotten.  A few Christmases ago, I'd watched Doctor Who, the only highlight of an otherwise solitary day, and out I went onto a nearly abandoned Goldhawk Road.  I'd been wandering around a while, when I heard a dysfunctional howling from afar.  It wasn't calling my name, but I decoded the noise as the name of a dealer I'd heard of.  'Junior,' it barked in the dark.  I heard no reply, and it was all too far away to see.  But, as luck would have it, the figure spotted me, and over it came, a shambling female crossing the road diagonally in a hooded coat.
  'Hi,' it said, in a familiar tone.  We'd met before.
  'Hello,' I replied, knowing I'd hit oil.  'Were you calling Junior?' I asked, pretending not to know.
  'I thought it was him,' she began, 'but it was someone else.'  Bit of a non-story, really.  But she had hit oil too...the only question was, how were we going to share it?
  Social niceties done, she said she had some crack, and a pipe, and I got suitably excited.  But where were we to go?  Two minutes later, we sat at the bottom of the stairs in a block I'd passed many times, but never entered.  I had a feeling that one of my normal friends lived there, but the promise of crack overrode considerations of that nature.
  A few preliminary questions on my part, and it became apparent that she actually had nothing.  But I was ensnared - or so I liked to think.  Maybe that was why she'd been bellowing for Junior to replenish her.  She could call someone though...Killer was on.  She produced a phone, and within seconds was checking to see if he was around, did he have both?  She asked me what I wanted, assuming (rightly) that I was paying.  I said get seven crack and three heroin, another hundred pounds down the drain.
  So, call done, it was down to Uxbridge Road, near the KFC, to meet the venerable Killer.  We were lucky, he turned up pretty quickly, and it wasn't long before we were crouching behind the wheelybins behind the hostel she lived in.  She had a pipe, as I stood there salivating like a dog, too impatient to even feel impatient.  Then it was my go, and she lit me kindly with a flame that almost took my fringe off.  But I'd had my pipe.
  We bantered for a bit, in semi-whispers, but her second pipe got her a bit wrong, and she became implausibly concerned with a window that was not quite overlooking us.  'We'd better move,' she informed me, shoving pipe and lighter in pocket.  'Let's go to Darius.'  I had no idea who Darius, but I just hoped he lived nearby, cos I was already in need of seconds.
  A few corners turned, and coming down fast, she bad me sit on some stone steps.  'I'm just going to see if he's in,' she explained.  'Wait there, he's a bit funny about strangers.'  I tried to imply that Darius knew me, to prevent her disappearing round the corner, never to return.  'Sit down,' she insisted.  'I'll give him a pipe and he'll be fine.'
  She left her bag with me, as proof she'd be back, and I perched on the steps to a lightless house.  She scampered round the corner, and I waited, well overdue a pipe, but she had the stuff, naturally.
  After a couple of minutes, I was catastrophising.  As I always did in such situations, I began to pray, asking god to deliver her unto me, with drugs, and full consent to enter Darius's.  There were footsteps, and I almost a believer became, but it was an innocent passer-by, to whom I threw a vague grin, not sure whether to wish them a merry Christmas or not.  They clip-clopped by.  It all went worryingly quiet.  Grim as shit, and bitter that I'd been duped for about the hundredth time, I took the liberty of feeling in the bag she'd left.  One can of lighter fuel, a woolly hat, and a chicken takeaway box with a few fries in.  I'd been done again.
  I sat there for another ten minutes or so, hoping against hope, but no one came.  Then, reluctantly, I rose, damp-arsed from the stone, and walked home, seething with a rage that almost gave off steam.
  Home, I calculated what was left in my account.  The answer was nil.  There was no second shot at this Christmas burnout.  I went to bed, trying to regulate my breathing, to assuage my anxiety and remorse at what I'd done.
  You might wonder how such a memory could prompt cravings several Christmases later.  All I can suggest is that any memory that involves, however embedded, that high climb to the fleeting peak of crack, is enough in itself.  The addict is a salvager, looking for crumbs of euphoria in any ancient landfill.  Even a rusty syringe might have some juice in it.



I hope you survived Christmas, too.  And that is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: Christmas Cracker

Hello, and a happy Christmas too.  As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here, or buy on amazon if you like.  If you do, please leave a review, as all feedback is appreciated - there are three already, but the more the merrier.  Now this blog is the near-daily ponderings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And, for your edification, here are today's ponderings...

CHRISTMAS CRACKER

Spare a thought for the lonesome soul in a quandary over the festive period.  I once was such a soul, desperately trying not to score with the money I had in the lead-up to Christmas.  Naturally, I failed, and found myself having bought no presents, with a foodless fridge, and a sense of foreboding engulfing me as the drear day neared.  What am I gonna tell my mum, neighbours, and friends?  Where shall I say I'm spending the baleful day?  What mysterious acquaintance shall I fabricate as an alibi?  Will I make up one lie for everyone, or a few to suit each well-meant enquiry?

Then, having fended off various questions, and the odd invitation, Christmas Eve arrives and, because of the imminent string of bank-holidays, money goes into my account early.  I panic, realising there's just a chance I could buy a present or two, and, even though I'm resigned to festive isolation, maybe get some nice food in, and at least celebrate quietly in front of the telly with red wine, some weed, old Doctor Who's, and a pile of nuts and Pringles.  Yes, maybe I could make an early New Year's resolution, and make Christmas the watershed for change in my dour life.

Naturally, I score.  Returning Christmas Eve night, I surmise that New Year is probably the best time for resolutions.  Anyway, now I've given myself a clear run to Jan 6, without a penny to my name, dwindling instant pastas in the cupboard, and half a carton of soya milk, but at least I can't score...I'm a prisoner of freedom.  Oh, what have I done, as I languish, sweating on my bed, Discovery History chuntering in the corner, telling me about the rise of the Third Reich.  Oh god, what have I done?

Then the phone rings.  It's a friend who's just got an unlimited tariff on their mobile, which means they can yelp their woes at me without a worry at any time.  They leave a message, saying they're having a meltdown with their erstwhile half-love.  I steam with rage as their message goes on, and on, and I just don't care, but I know they'll keep trying until they hear from me, when yet more excuses will have to be found.

Then, just after midnight, I'm trying to get to sleep, when the phone goes again.  Another friend is wishing me happy Christmas, which I resent, and I know that I'll have to make a call or two when I unwillingly rise midmorning.  I can't sleep, and heroin's comforting veil has dropped away, and life just seems awful, tense, bitter, and hateful, just a slow helter-skelter of regret and remorse.

After a couple more hours, and another rise of the fucking Reich, I somehow slump into a semi-sleep, flecked with blurred nightmares that wake me with a start, still dark.  The breakfast show is on, but it's a different presenter from usual, cos it's Christmas, and he's playing crap.  I hear my neighbour's door, my letterbox rattles, in drops a card, which I resent, and begin sweating in case they knock.  I glisten for ten seconds, stiff on my stony bed, and their door closes.  But I feel hounded, even though there's nothing but good will for me from everyone I know.

And then, the big day begins.  I roll over, basting in my own juices, utterly stuffed, panicking the phone'll ring any moment.  Hitler has given way to Henry VIII, and I try to trance out with the Tudors.  But the damage is done, again.

And that is my Christmas reminiscence for today.  And I'm mightily relieved it is a reminiscence, because that pretty much describes the last ten Christmases I've known.  But not this time, which I think might call for a little tinsel.

Oh, and here's a link to one of my songs, which you may have heard before, but all ears are welcomed...  here it is...  Get Out Of My Room

I hope you have a merry Christmas though, and thanks for dropping by.  Hope to see you in the next few days...

AFTERMATH: Crack Shack

Hello, and thanks for dropping by.  As you may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can also buy on amazon, if you wish.  If you do, please leave a review - all are appreciated.  From then on, the blog is the almost-daily thoughts of me, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And today I am thinking about one of my many attempts to stop using crack, some five years ago now...

CRACK SHACK

On one of my many parental geographicals, far from the danger of the city, I googled hypnotherapy, to see if that might save me.

After picking my way through numerous charlatans and predators, I found one who seemed to have a training that was more than just a long weekend in a scout hut, at the end of which you're given a laminated diploma in nothing.  He had the same name as a DJ, and was local to my flat, back in London.  His website said he'd worked with people with addiction problems, so, desperate and embarrassed, I gave him a ring.  I couldn't tell him I'd been using crack, so said it was cocaine, in case crack frightened him off.  He said he'd had clients with cocaine issues before, and assured me that, as far as he knew, he'd had good success.

I booked an appointment for the following week, when I was planning to return to my flat.  The next day, I rang him again, and said it was crack cocaine I'd been using, just in case this meant he'd need to tweak the spell.  He seemed fairly unfazed, and I told him a cheque was in the post for my session, from my mum, of course, because at this stage I couldn't be trusted with twenty quid, without spending it on crack at the earliest opportunity.

A week later, there I was, waiting for him outside a shack on the edge of an Ealing industrial estate.  Then up came a cordial, bustling chap, in white shirt and flapping casual trousers, looking doctorly, but not daunting, clinical-casual, you might call it.  Unlocking the shack, we both went in.

After an introductory chat, and confirmation that he'd received the cheque from mummy, he bad me lay back in his reclining chair.  I did so, closed my eyes, and on came the whale-song.  After a few squawks, he began to speak, in a low, slow, almost musical voice.  I was in a sunken garden, there was a fountain there, a gentle breeze wafted, and there was a woman, across the garden, illuminated, seeming to float.  By this point, I found myself smiling, but I wasn't sure whether it was because I found his narrative amusing, or because I was beginning to feel safe, at peace, even hopeful.

I can't remember what happened between me and the woman, if anything, but the next thing I remember is him telling me I was standing outside a walled garden, banging on the gate, demanding to be let in.  It opened, and I found myself among strange, dangerous folk, some of whom were smoking crack, according to him.  I smoked it, and heard the gate slam shut behind me.  I turned to escape, but couldn't.

Next thing I recall is being back in the garden, with the breeze, the glowing woman, fragrant herbs, and the fountain, of course.  It was here that he released me from the trance, and I woke...though I hadn't been asleep at any point.  I didn't know what to feel, but told him I felt calm, hopeful, somehow different, because I thought he'd like to hear this.  We chatted a little more, off went the whales, and I made my way home.

My ever-suffering mum had put twenty-quid in the post, which was on the doormat to welcome me.  I took up the envelope and picked out the note.  Normally, I'd have scored immediately, but something, I don't know what, had me sit on the bed and ring her.  I told my mum that I'd been, and that I thought it might have worked.  She hoped I was right.

I don't know what I did that day, but I didn't use.  Nor did I the next day, or the next.  But come Friday, I felt like I should be doing something, going out, meeting new people, doing what people apparently do on a Friday night.  I felt like a frozen lake, with a beast beneath, rising through the gloomy water, determined to break through the icy crust, and free itself, wreak havoc wherever havoc seemed easiest to wreak.  Unfortunately, because I only had twenty quid, I convinced myself there was no point ringing a friend, or going to some hostelry to coolly read a novel...twenty pounds gets you nowhere these days, I rationalised.  But it would get me down the road to Peggy and Don's, who would always order me a stone of crack, if Killer was around.

I'd gone three days without using, without using when I could have done so.  This was a first, and something to celebrate, something that seemed to offer a modicum of hope, a reacquaintance with my older, better self.  But the blackwater beastie was stirring, rising, clamouring to crack through the ice and see the light of day.  Up he rose, silently at first, and then, smashing through the white veneer, reared, hollered, lay a gleaming tentacle on the shore, and dragged himself to Peggy and Don's, where he wrought twenty-quid's worth of havoc.

Hours later, he slavered home, sinking back into the broken mush of the lake.  The water stilled, and sealed up like up a wound.  But you could still feel his grudge, even though the surface was once again smooth.

And that was the end of my experiment with hypnotherapy.

Here is one of my songs, if you'd like to hear it.  Click on the name and it'll take you to my youtube page...  The World Is Full Of Whores

That's all I have to say today.  Thanks for dropping by.

AFTERMATH: Cokeywokeydoodah

Hi, thanks for dropping by.  You may know, the first 22 instalments of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here, or buy on amazon, if you're into that kind of thing.  Nowadays, as you can see, this blog is the almost-daily musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green...

COKEYWOKEYDOODAH

Why have so many newspapers shown an almost reverential sympathy for Nigella Lawson's recent admission that she has used cocaine, and, heaven forfend, cannabis?

Could it be a composite reason, a jumbled assortment of facts like she's rich, vaguely attractive (though with a scary resemblance to her father), the plaintive in a case of domestic manhandling by her even richer ex-partner, Charles Saatchi?  Or is it because she's a sacred matriarch, who at least kept her dabblings within the plush confines of her labyrinthine lairs, and, what's more, is a proficient marinader of peach-halves in a spice cordial? 

Or could it be because the chatterati see something of themselves in her non-addicted relationship with various white powders?  One of the clichés I begrudgingly internalised in rehab was 'addiction loves company', and, although Nigella says she wasn't/isn't an addict, cocaine is a vain drug, whispering, by way of an introduction to the novice, 'you don't need me, it's ok, you can put me down when you like...'  This is true for some, whilst, for others, that first line is like the grooves left behind a skier, kicking off from an alpine peak, only to tumble akimbo, snowblind, a chaos of flailing limbs, into an icy gusset half a mile below...

How many of Nigella's attributes would have to be removed before she became the addled urchin that many of these same newspapers call spongers, dishevelled in day-centre denim, skulking into Cash Converters with someone else's hi-fi, or their own flat-screen TV, acquired by misappropriating their ill-gotten disability benefits...but that's a different narrative.

Celebrity is fragile...it comes with built-in fracture-lines, imminent obsolescence as standard.  Some people are better at being it, playing it, and Nigella is probably as proficient at this as she is aerating a salmon soufflé for some sophisticated soiree, in a world where cocaine's not so much a drug, more of a dessert.  But, as with any too-rich tiramisu, overindulgence can lead to regret, a circular state of being where luxury turns to lechery, delight, debauchery, the cure for our woes, the cause.  The boom of cocaine always comes with a bust, a gross, groggy comedown, where remorse and resentment fester, and it's always someone else that's to blame...something daddy maybe knows about.

And, to close, here is a song, if you fancy a listen...

Run Out Of Drugs Again

And that, as far as I know, is all I have to say today.