An ex-student on the evening programme who had gone to teach English in Japan and was back in London one summer for a short visit threw a party at his place in Brixton to see all his friends. In the end, I left the party just in time to catch the last Tube train to Highbury.
Sitting opposite me in the otherwise empty compartment were two young men — one black, one white, in their late teens or early 20s — obviously stoned, with a glazed look. Each was clutching a plastic bag full of chocolate bars, out of which they fished a bar each. What followed was most surrealistic. Every move of theirs was done in s..l..o..w m..o..t..i..o..n : t..a..k..i..n..g o..u..t the chocolate bar from the plastic bag, u..n..d..o..i..n..g the wrapper, b..i..t..i..n..g i..n..t..o the chocolate bar, c..h..e..w..i..n..g the chocolate. They were so stoned they could barely keep their eyes open as they worked their way through the chocolate bars.
About five stops after Brixton, one of them spotted me sitting opposite them, put his hand into his plastic bag, took out a chocolate bar and offered it to me. (And there I was, worrying about being in danger.) I wasn’t sure if saying no might offend them, but went for it all the same, “No, thank you, I’ve just had a big meal, I have no more room.” They went back to their chocolate bars.
Another five stops later, the train arrived at Kings Cross, a major interchange stop for other Tube and overland trains. As it was the last train, the driver waited for a good five minutes, to allow people the chance to catch it.
The two young men were still on their slow motion journey through their chocolate fix when they suddenly realised we were at Kings Cross. They cried out, “Oh sh*t, that’s our stop!”, and with unexpected agility, leapt up and shot out of the train just as the doors were closing.
I was the one left wondering if I’d been the stoned one and imagined the whole surrealistic experience.
(London, 1990)
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