That is a scary story. I love how you shifted perspective to view Bobbi Jo as a mentor instead of vilifying her.

That's how we grow - looking for the positive in even the most dire situations.

My heart was racing as you related the story am sp glad you emerged unharmed.

What I'm about to relate doesn't warrant a submission so I'll share it here.

My then boyfriend introduced me to weed in 1967 - this was the hippie generation. But he educated me about it and warned me never to do hard drugs, and only smoke a joint on weekends.

We parted ways and I was living in a hip area, where Hillbrow, our own Greenwich Village, which was a safe walk away. On week-ends we'd congregate with fellow travellers at the coffee bar and arrange to meet up at somebody's 'pad' for a joint. It wasn't legal in those days!

I walked to the address - an apartment downtown, and when I arrived. somebody went to put on the kettle. Great - tea of coffee was on the way.

But when they brought the kettle into the lounge and began sterilizing needles, I got up without a word and left. No way would I experiment with heroin.

Months later, I bumped into a young man who'd been in our circle. He was totally destroyed, an addict, and looked a decade older than his years. I told him to go home to his parents in Durban and get clean. I don't know if he ever did, but the incident reinforced my commitment to steer clear of hard drugs.