It’s 2004. Glen and I sit in his front room, gazing over our purchase of two bags of magic mushrooms. In April 2005, the Drugs Act will be passed, rendering mushrooms illegal. Until then, though, they are available from the closest provincial hippy paraphernalia emporium.

The woman at the counter told us we should eat them on empty stomachs. Accordingly, with bellies rumbling, we wolf them down, battling through the bitter taste with mouthfuls of chocolate.

We wait a while, silent and nauseous. Some nu metal video on MTV2 is on, featuring a chubby white guy singing about self-harm. In years to come, I’ll play these songs and pretend I never enjoyed them.

Without warning, my bowels loosen. I rush to the toilet.

Washing my hands and staring into mirror, the first wave of mushroom high hits me, coated in post-dump euphoria. I head downstairs, gripping the banister for balance. Glen is entranced with the TV, with twinkling eyes and an unconscious smile.

It’s time to explore.