Steve, the money-mad entrepreneur, is over from the US. He is in town for our friend Molly's funeral - oh and, as usual, a lot of "pardying".

On the eve of the service, we stood in her parents' perfectly suburban rear garden and, surrounded by lawn, hedgerow and rose beds, talked about life and politics.

"Shit, man, looks like I'm gonna be voting Tory next time round," Steve said, grinning and shaking his head. "I mean, I'll vote for any party that lets me smoke weed and, right now, that means the Tories are the cool kids on the block."

With the legalisation of cannabis suddenly back on the political agenda, perhaps it is finally safe for those of us who discovered spliffs at the same time as Benson & Hedges to emerge, blinking, into this strange, sunlit world where Tories are more tolerant and laid-back than new Labour.

At 14, I was already a regular puffer. First thing in the morning, I'd set off to school in my navy-blue uniform, swinging my satchel back and forth over my shoulder and lighting a roach left over from the night before. It made the long, boring journey to school far more entertaining.

All my close mates smoked weed back then, but only after we had finished our homework: we were highly motivated, part-time potheads. Drugs never, ever, interfered with my schooling.

Well, OK, only twice.

The first time that being stoned was a real problem was after the worldly Jody Roberts gave me a "blow back" at the bus stop in Mill Hill East. She cupped both hands around a very potent spliff (she could afford better "gear" because her parents gave her £50 a week in pocket money) and blew through them into my open mouth. The raw smoke filled my lungs, my head literally buzzed, and flashing lights appeared.

When the 221 arrived, I was wobbling all over the place, so friends gathered around giggling and heaved me up the steps. Then they sneaked me behind my desk for registration, and Debbie answered "yes" when my name was called. But it couldn't last. The deputy head called our class into assembly and, feeling faint, I tripped over my high heels, dragged two girls down with me and cracked my head against the piano stool. We landed in a heap of hilarity that threatened to turn into mass hysteria. All I could do was lie down and giggle, legs akimbo in a very unladylike manner. "Booth, see me after assembly," she boomed.

The only other time I broke my "no drugs when thinking is required" rule was before my A-level French literature exam. Rohan was sitting in the refectory hollowing out an apple to use as a home-made chillum. He packed the inside with skunk and said solemnly to me: "You look really stressed - have some of this." With all the logic of a pot-smoking teen, I thought: "A couple of puffs will calm me down and help me focus better on the complex issues of friendship raised in Alain-Fournier's Le Grand Meaulnes." My nerves vanished at once.

There were two questions to answer in the exam. The first concerned a character from another novel, a professional clown, who mistreats his wife. From the moment Mrs Mumford said "You may turn the paper over - now", I wrote non-stop for two hours, then triumphantly threw my pen down and took a break. The buzzing in my ears had died down, and thoughts and ideas were no longer battling for my attention. With half an hour left for the final question, I quickly scanned the six pages for mistakes. It was a surprisingly coherent and entertaining essay. I felt pleased. The only problem was, it was written in English.

At Molly's wake, Steve and other friends clustered in the garden and rolled joints behind the shed. There was laughter and plenty of joking; it was a "do" of which Molly would have approved. And her parents, tolerant Tories both, turned a blind eye, as they have done for almost two decades.