Addiction is in my blood, but in a family of junkies I was the one without a habit. Daddy gave up dialysis to spend more time in the pub. Mummy is hooked on smoking, shopping and risking skin cancer in the sun. My brother took the conventional route with sex, drugs, and suicide. ‘Drugs,’ as Dr Dex is fond of saying, ‘are only a problem when you stop taking them.’ Despite having diplomatic immunity at High School, I was never into angel dust and downed water before it was fashionable. ‘Never get high on your own supply,’ as Michelle Pfeiffer warns in Scarface. It wasn’t until my supply was cut off that I realised I was an addict.
There I was in my apartment in the Kempinski hotel in Beijing, having to lock all my NIOD bottles in the safe in case my maid was tempted to have a blast of CAIS while she cleaned. I’d had pneumonia, twice, and wasn’t yet flight friendly. If only I’d been taking Fulphyl, the brown stuff that stops you getting sick. But I was still resistant to swallowing potions then. And popping pills was something I associated with my trank addict aunties. As I lay in bed slathered in Myrrh Clay, my husband, Dangerous, tried to score some NIOD. But the massive box of VH products he ordered to prevent withdrawal symptoms were confiscated at customs.
While I plotted a revenge hit at Beijing airport on the man with no pores who was using my Mastic Must, Dangerous tried to smuggle more NIOD into the diplomatic bag. But a bossy lady with the improbable name of Suzy Leather sent him a missive explaining that liquids are forbidden in the PM’s pouch. There was nothing else for it. I had to hand out free holidays to my mad friends and demanding family. These visitors came to Beijing armed with my fix but the full dose wasn’t reaching me. Lip Bio-Lipid Concentrate was opened and sniffed and broken at Heathrow as my Japanese bestie Crazy K tried to get through the scanner with it strapped to her torso.
FECC was smashed in transit; either that or Crazy K took an in-flight overdose. She arrived with plenty of bags but not under her eyes. I was counting the drops of MMHC left in the bottle. The only thing I had multiples of was LVCE because in China I have to wash my face a million times if I don’t want pores like deep fried pork. If you empty your mind, the answer comes. Of course emptying your mind is easier said than done when you are up all night inspecting your supply of Hydration Vaccine. My skin was still perfect but how long would that last when I ran out of NIOD? Dangerous’s complexion was showing the stress of Chinese air even with ozone being pumped into our apartment.
Desperation breeds deception. I got Dangerous hooked on LVCE, hiding the spares to make it look like we were running out! He had to fly to London and buy more! It was either that, or face the world with a gigantic blackhead on his nose. With his James Bond passport and innocent face he was able to get two large suitcases of VH through customs while I resisted vaulting the barrier to pull my products out and apply them straight away. My driver Mr Gang Bang watched in the rear view as I put on Flavanone Mud. He was used to my antics in the back seat as he navigated the psychotic Beijing traffic, but this orange stuff was new.
The doorman gave me a funny look as I went into my building. Funny looks won’t kill me. Being without NIOD might. Catching a glimpse of myself in the lift mirror, I knew: I am a hardcore VH Addict. At least I’m addicted to substances that made me look Lolitatastic.