GOT A LIGHT, OFFICER?

For the next six months, anyone caught with cannabis in Lambeth will
be given no more than a stiff telling off. Armed with two joints,
Merope Mills headed down to south London yesterday to put this
lenient new policy to the test.

There is no room for smack and crack in Brixton. It says so on a
banner hung loosely above the entrance to Lambeth Town Hall. But on
this particular posting, that is as far as the specifics go. Which is
one of the reasons I find myself sitting on the building's steps,
smoking a joint, to the apparent bother of nobody at all.

It is the first week of new police plans to issue no more than a
warning to those caught in possession of cannabis in the London
borough of Lambeth, and locals appear disarmingly unfazed by their
unique new regulation. When asked, visitors to the town hall proffer
a light and pass through the haze that surrounds me without a second
glance. Only when a good half an hour has gone by do I get some words
of encouragement from a passerby. "You're doing well," says a kindly,
gold-toothed man - though, nervously, he declines my offer for him to
join in.

Having selflessly put myself forward as a guinea pig in this David
Blunkett-approved "experiment", I can confirm there is little
evidence that these south Londoners see my blatancy as much of a
departure from the norm. It is business as usual down the market
where, spliff in hand, I buy a pound of cherries from a local fruit
stall. At a nearby cafe, I polish off a fruit juice and the rest of
my reefer without incident (though later, when I settle the bill, I
ask the manager whether he is happy to have dope-smokers on the
premises and he gives me a decisive "no"). I can also confirm that
the Prince of Wales pub is less than welcoming to the odd
marijuana-fan, having asked a barman whether it's OK for me to
skin-up on site. "No way," he says, disgusted, before walking away
with a disapproving shake of the head.

Outside the pub, the driver of a police car stuck in traffic eyes me
suspiciously. When I look straight at her I'm sure she spies the
substance, but I take it from her bullet-proof vest that she has more
pressing things to attend to.

As the day wears on I join other dope-smokers on the grass outside
the Ritzy cinema. A 61-year-old pensioner, who'd like to be known as
Mr Blair, explains that he smokes marijuana because he doesn't drink
alcohol - bypassing an explanation for the near-empty bottle of
Heineken in his left hand. "I'm a tax-payer, so I'm allowed," he
reasons. A woman pushing a pram tells me: "Never mind about the weed
- - you need to be doing something about Lambeth housing instead."

Then suddenly, a man in a stripy shirt and bandanna is making an
unsteady bee line for me from across the park. "Is that ganga?" he
asks. "Yes," I say, "do you want some?" "I do," he beams, "and do you
know why? It's because I believe it is not a crime." This is the
first of many explanations that Principal, a song-writer and poet
("although I don't show it"), gives for why it's OK for me and him to
be sharing this weed on Brixton high road. "Did you know you can eat
too much, and you can drink too much but you can't smoke too much,"
he drools, before quickly disproving his own point with an impressive
level of incoherence. "I'm glad I've met you because now I know at
least somebody understands me. What's wrong with having a spliff?"
When I get up to leave he asks where I'm going. "To the police
station with the gear," I say. "Heavy," he replies, "good luck."

As of this week, though, luck is not essential if you want to smoke
cannabis outside Brixton police station. I know because I've done it.
There were twitching blinds as a number of the inhabitants clocked me
from the inside - but none of them rose to the bait. Instead I had to
hunt down a pedestrian police officer to practise my flagrancy on.
And for the record I can confirm that the Brixton bobbies - though
consistently courteous when asked - are not at all forthcoming with a
light.