Sometimes I look back on my past and wonder what happened to my audacity and lack of fear.
I seemed to then live in a world where all thought process were cerebral and creative, and mundane concepts like legalities and consequences had no place.
When I was seventeen I lived in a flat that had several drug trends; one being a love for San Pedro Cactus, the other for nitrous oxide.
The San Pedro cactus passion meant many a journey cruising around the drier parts of New Zealand, Style Council blaring on the car stereo, looking for the right sort of spiky protrusions projecting over fences.
The fridge was filled with milk bottles of cactus slime, and morning’s often began with the green projectile vomit which signalled the beginning of a cactus trip.
The nitrous oxide affection was not as easy to cater for, and desperation occasionally saw us skulking around supermarkets with inane grins on our faces and cans of dairy whip protruding from our nostrils.
On one occasion four of our number donned lab coats and went into Wellington Public Hospital where we purloined a large tank of nitrous oxide.
Two of us staggered its weight into the back of our tiny fiat Bambina. As we drove off we taped a black rubbish bag to the nozzle of the tank, filled it with the gas, and started inhaling.
I still marvel at the thought of a Fiat Bambina containing four orgy-eyed and giggling people, a large tank of nitrous oxide and an inflated rubbish bag, driving through the main streets of Wellington.