The grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight almost an hour ago and I’m on my last legs.
The school carol service is tomorrow at lunchtime, when my two daughters separate; I need to finish my Christmas shopping and I’m working until the 24th.
But I am a victim of an upper-middle class Ancient Mariner. A woman in a sequin dress has been talking to me for at least the last 45 minutes. And the problem is, from the speed of his sentences, the way he repeats himself, and the slightly glassy look in his eyes, I can tell he’s having a completely different party than I am.
Yes, their evening involves large amounts of cocaine. Welcome to the Cotswolds where, if you know the “right” people, every Christmas is white.
We live in an idyllic place. Honey-colored stone houses sit on rolling emerald hills, with long stretches of gravel drive leading to large front doors in muted greens and blues of Farrow and Ball. The women are dressed in cashmere and are given Lululemon and organic vegetables weekly.
But behind the keratin hair treatments and the manicured boxwood hedges there is a vulnerable point of cocaine consumption that is as everyday as walking the dog or drinking a green juice in the morning.
Users think of cocaine as a hidden addiction, something that helps you get through boring social events and stay up late during fun events. And never more than at Christmas
When we moved here seven years ago, I was shocked to learn that there were large quantities of class A drugs disrupting school operations and breathing classes.
I’m not naive. I know that drugs have always been prevalent among the rich and that cocaine in particular brings a little excitement to the weekend or the monotony of waiting for husbands to come back from town. And yet I had no idea how many middle-aged women had taken up the habit or how often they did it.
If you think this is just some weird party, think again. I’ve seen mothers sneaking in to do drugs at lunches, during kids’ tea (those big pantries come in handy!) and even at school events.
Cocaine is not like alcohol. You can’t smell it, and people generally don’t move or talk incoherently after taking it. Those who participate consider it a sneaky, hidden vice, a clever thing that helps you get through boring social events and stay up late during the fun ones. And never more than at Christmas.
A couple of years ago, at a school carol service, I sat and watched the woman in front of me squirm, and even grimace slightly, as the lessons were read.
I saw her later as we drank watered down mulled wine, ate mince pies and bought expensive scented candles made by another mother. He was talking in a ridiculously animated manner, but you could probably only tell what was really going on if you recognized the signs.
This all seems so pathetic to me. Sure, I thought this kind of acting was pretty cool and subversive when I was in my early 20s, but now that I’m 40, I think it’s kind of reckless and wasteful.
Honestly, I despise those who take drugs. We all have responsibilities now and, most importantly, children. If the shenanigans I’ve seen took place on a council estate, social services would be called. But because it is among the rich and privileged, it is considered sexy, hedonistic… and acceptable.
My husband and I have less money than our partying neighbors, but we both have attended private schools and have successful jobs; He is an owner and I am an accountant.
The first time I realized that some women were eating more than just protein bars was when I was invited to a school mum’s birthday lunch a few months after our move to the Cotswolds.
In the late 1900s we partied as much as anyone. I enjoyed her rebelliousness, slipping into the bathrooms with laughter, and I loved the deliciously pungent taste when that first line slipped down the back of my throat, bringing with it a rush of energy and confidence.
But I won’t forget the mornings that follow either: the self-loathing, the headaches, the bloating, and the exhaustion.
By the time we got married in 2012, both in our early thirties, we had put cocaine firmly on the sidelines, as had most of our London friends.
Imagine my surprise when we moved to the country a few years later and found the partying was as intense as you’d find at any Fulham reunion a decade earlier. I’m no prude and I have nothing against Mom’s wine hour, but Mom’s drug hour was a revelation.
The first time I realized that some women were fueling themselves with more than just homemade protein bars was when I was invited to a school mom’s birthday lunch a few months after our move.
I was tentatively making friends and she was very much one of the alphas, with an aristocratic husband, glamorous friends who stayed over for weekends, beautiful clothes and the most incredible Cotswold stone manor house.
I felt honored to be there and very shy when I entered their huge kitchen. However, after a delicious poached salmon, our hostess disappeared for a few minutes with one of the other mothers. When they returned, they opened another bottle of white wine and seemed much more talkative.
As the afternoon progressed, it became increasingly evident that most of them were using cocaine. I had to go to school later, so I drank half a glass of wine for hours, feeling increasingly clumsy as the conversations around me grew louder. When I left at five, everyone else looked like they were getting ready for the night.
That opened my eyes and I realized that there was a whole social group that had a reputation for not sleeping much from Friday to Sunday.
The close friends I made were like me and worked during the week: a lawyer, a GP and a teacher, none of whom had an interest in drugs. We all agreed that it wasn’t worth risking our jobs in these days of social media; It would only take one #greatnightout and a photo of us next to a pile of white dust to make us unemployed. Or worse.
But we were all invited to dinners where, after the chocolate fondant, the “real” pudding appeared.
Sometimes I was bored saying no, but a friend in London suffered a heart attack at the age of 40 from using cocaine. It just didn’t appeal to me anymore. And seeing people in their 40s and even 50s sweating and grumbling and groaning didn’t exactly make me feel like I was missing out.
It got to the point where around midnight, when the party was literally picking up a few notches, my husband and I would sneak away and enjoy a full night of peaceful sleep.
Now, if you asked them, none of these slender, beautifully coiffed women and their florid husbands would consider themselves mired in addiction. After all, there’s nothing wrong with a little fun?
The product is obtained from well-spoken people in the local pub or from “my man” in one of the larger cities.
But as I remember from my partying days, cocaine can easily go from being fun to becoming a problem. I think cocaine is always used to fill a void. That white dust is the soft cry of those whose lives seem perfect but in reality lack something fundamental and satisfying.
What’s more, what’s pure Scott Fitzgerald or Jilly Cooper glamor at 3 in the morning is quite different when you’re at the local grocery store the next day, buying Diet Coke, smelling inelegant, with gray, dirty skin. by the inclinations of the previous night.
And how about sex? After all, cocaine lowers inhibitions. A couple of years ago I went to a party at a beautiful barn. It was gorgeously decorated with fire pits outside and a cocktail bar. My husband and I left, as was our custom, at midnight when the music picked up speed and the voices picked up speed next door.
The next day, there was a rumor that a married couple (not each other) had been missing for quite some time and had returned looking rather disheveled.
What I find most disturbing is that children are never immune to parental behavior. They are older now, they know very well what their parents are doing and, personally, I would be worried if they followed in their footsteps.
Friends from a neighboring town brag about how close they are to their children, who are in their twenties. Everyone gets high together on the weekend. What a great family bond that must be.
I wouldn’t say I hate the holiday season I spent among the shiny gang, but on top of all the food prepping and gift buying, I’m preparing to be bored senseless with those who can’t enjoy a night out without chemicals. . aid.
Let it snow, let it snow, but only if it comes from the real sky.