Venetia Thompson, who has never taken the drug, was shocked to discover a stash in her house. What to do? Her friends’ response was a collective shrug as if it were nothing unusual
It is said that in London, you are never further than ten feet from the nearest rat. It seems that, these days, the same might just as easily be said of cocaine.
Recently, while gathering up my washing, I discovered an unfamiliar sock. This was immediately bizarre, as I recognise all of my socks; there are not many of them, they very rarely travel in matching pairs, and can usually be found lurking in dark corners of drawers next to a forgotten flight sock that I keep, just in case I decide to opt to prevent a DVT in just one of my legs next time I fly. Yes: I know my socks.
So there was something instantly suspicious about this stray sock. It didn’t belong with my others. Its top had been lopped off, and it was tied in a knot, so that it now resembled some sort of bobbled grey pouch. My hands trembling, expecting to find maybe a dead stag beetle or rabbit’s foot, I undid it and risked a look inside — only to find seven lotto slips tightly folded to resemble tiny envelopes. The romantic in me thought momentarily that someone had left me a series of uniformly folded love letters; or even the winning lottery numbers. I began unfolding one of the packages — and then watched as a substantial amount of white powder puffed into the air and sprinkled all over my foot and the floor. At which point, I began to panic.
Now I should make clear at the start that cocaine and I have no sort of relationship.
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