Idiopathy

compounded and reflected the widening differences between them: Daniel struggling upwards; Nathan kicking out for the depths.
    The obvious option was to get some weed. This was, he thought, the simplest solution to everything. Old friends, getting gently stoned, listening to some classic albums. How could that possibly fail?
    The difficulty, of course, was that although Daniel thought of being stoned as a social experience, what he had never really appreciated at the time was that it was a product of social experience too, since, much as getting stoned loosened you up and allowed you to meet people, you still needed to know at least
some
people in order to get hold of the stuff in the first place.
    His contacts list was woeful. Everyone in his BlackBerry was either a colleague, one of Angelica’s friends, or some professional or other working with his father. He felt a mild sense of panic. The idea had relieved so much of his tension with such rapidity that any consideration of abandoning the plan now seemed impossible. It was vital, he thought, that he get his hands on some weed for the weekend. If he didn’t, no one would have a good time, and they would blame him, and the whole thing would be such an unmitigated disaster that he felt slightly breathless just thinking about it.
    He put his feet up on his desk and considered his options. He could, he thought, ask around the office. He was fairly sure, for example, that both Jenssen and Meyer would have their sources. Indeed, given their background in organic crop research and the eco-warrior counterculture, they had probably reared their own strain. But still, there was something decidedly unprofessional about asking them, or really anyone with whom he worked.
    Another option was to spend the evening in the rougher areas of town and hope for the best. Drive out to some estate somewhere and cruise up to one of those little knots of lads you saw swigging cider at isolated bus stops.
Alright chaps
, he’d say. No, not chaps. Chaps sounded awful, like something out of
Biggles
. Lads, maybe? Geezers?
Alright geezers
? That wasn’t bad. He’d breeze up with his hands in his pockets and sort of sniff and look about him, then ask if anyone knew where he might be able to, what was the phrase, score? He was stuck in another decade entirely. How could you get so out of date in so few years?
    This was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to drive to a rough area. He didn’t even know any rough areas. And if he did know one, and did drive to it, he was going to drive right through it and not look back.
    He swivelled in his chair. Outside, in the car park, the much-reduced demonstration now consisted entirely, in Sebastian’s absence, of three shifty-looking lads in Doc Martens, none of whom Daniel recognised, easing their weight from foot to foot and holding each end of a large banner in rotation so one of them could have a break to blow on his hands. It was a fairly foolish option, Daniel thought, but it was better than no option at all.

    ‘G entlemen,’ said Daniel, striding out carrying three cups of fresh coffee. ‘You looked cold so I thought I’d furnish you with some refreshments.’
    ‘Furnish us?’ said the one not holding the banner, who had a threadbare ginger beard and what appeared to be a piece of copper piping through his earlobe. ‘What do you think we are? A room?’
    The banner-bearers laughed, but were also eyeing the coffee.
    ‘I don’t see why we can’t all be friends,’ said Daniel. Why, he wondered,
why
did he say such unbelievably stupid things?
    ‘Is that filter coffee?’ said one. ‘Cos I won’t drink instant.’
    ‘And I won’t drink anything Nestlé,’ said the third, ‘or anything that isn’t Fairtrade.’
    ‘I’m lactose intolerant actually,’ said the first one, distractedly pushing his little finger through his copper piping.
    ‘These are black Fairtrade cafetière coffees,’ said Daniel, ‘from my very own cafetière.’
    ‘Where do we stand on this, Archie?’ said the second banner-bearer, whose end of the banner had dropped somewhat during the exchange.
    ‘We’ve got our own coffee, thanks,’ said Archie, who was clearly the de facto leader.
    ‘No we don’t,’ said the first banner-bearer, who had now lowered his end of the banner even further than his compatriot.
    ‘Shut up, William,’ said Archie. ‘We have the means of
production
of coffee, that’s what counts.’
    ‘Do we?’ said William.
    ‘Well we