ANY DOPE CAN BUY CANNABIS...

My mission, if I chose to accept it: how long would it take for a
convent-educated, clean(ish)-living young woman to score some cannabis in
Edinburgh. With cash in my wallet and David Blunkett in my heart, I set
out. It was 9pm.

I walked into The Basement, Broughton Street, and sat in the corner with a
glass of wine.

It's what might be termed a "young person's" watering hole, with loud,
funky music and white, leather seats.

A group of casually-dressed 20-somethings caught my eye so I sidled up to
them, trying to work out how to ask a group of complete strangers for drugs.

"Hi, I'm new to the city and I was wondering if you guys knew where I could
get some cannabis," I said, affecting a cool and casual manner.

The tallest of the men turned round.

"Cannabis? You'd be lucky love - but are you interested in something a
little harder, perhaps some Es? I can probably sort you out," he said.

Knowing when I'm outclassed - Class A, specifically - I made my excuses,
downed my wine, and left.

Next stop was The Dome, George Street, which was packed with smart office
workers celebrating the end of the week. I imagined neatly-wrapped grams of
cocaine sharing wallets with 'diamond' credit cards. A bit of waccy-baccy
couldn't be far away.

Another glass of wine was downed as I steeled myself to approach a group of
rather important-looking men and women.

I popped the question and stood back. There were blank smiles before a
rather embarrassed women in a stiff cream suit said: "I think you're asking
the wrong people - we're past all that."

I fled. At this rate, alcohol poisoning seemed more likely than a drugs high.

It was on to pub number three, and this time I had chosen a rather
seedy-looking watering hole with dingy lights and faded brown sofas.
Changing tack, I decided the bar staff might be better placed to help.

"A glass of white wine and do you know where I can get some cannabis," I
said - all smiles - to a middle aged man with a beer gut.

"Medium or dry?" he asked, presumably referring to the wine. "I'm not sure
if he knows much about cannabis, but the man over there might have an idea
about other drugs."

The gentleman in question was a young-looking dropout wearing a
bright-coloured tracksuit and sporting a pony tail. Fingering the cash in
my pocket I put on what I considered my toughest-looking face and popped
the question.

"Not on me, dear, but I've got a mate who might be able to help you out,"
he replied. Then he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. "How much
are you wanting?"

Desperately trying to mask my ignorance about the different quantities
cannabis was sold in - small? regular? Howard Marks? - I told him it was
"just for me".

He told me an 'eighth' would do. I reflected with pride on how the British
cannabis industry was doggedly sticking to imperial measures in the face of
Brussels' metric fascism.

Pony tail called his pal. The deal was done: an eighth of 'Skunk' - a
particularly strong strain of cannabis - would be mine for ?20 the next
morning.

So yesterday, at a time when most law-abiding folk are praying for an extra
half-hour's sleep, I found myself in the city's Broughton Street looking
out for a man in jeans and a grey jogging top.

At the appointed time he turned up and introduced himself - somewhat
unimaginatively - as Kevin. I couldn't help looking for the telltale bulge
of his 'nine-mill' and then realised I'd been watching too many Ali G videos.

Out of his pocket, 'Kevin' pulled a plastic bag a third full of what looked
like small green flower buds which he told me to sniff. "It's some of the
best skunk around - it'll blow your head off," he said.

It had taken 12 hours to find a dealer and get my hands on the stuff.
Spliff anyone?