My night with the Teletubbies: The diary of Emma D May

Sunday 12.01am: Have spent last two hours driving round in circles all over east London in Anna's car in quest for dope, while smoking nasty woody bits that are all that remains of current stash. Usual dealer busted last week, thus need to locate ex-dealer, but can't quite remember precisely where he is and can't exactly look up "Tricky Dicky" in the phone book. "The address has got 'north' somewhere in it," says Anna, helpfully, nearly mowing down an OAP. Problem is that it's Dylan's birthday tomorrow and the only thing he ever wants to celebrate the anniversary of his birth is an ounce of grass and a psychedelic trip to nowhere.

1am: Deja-vu now setting in. As we pass Brick Lane for the eight-millionth time, suggest just going to Leicester Square to score, so we can be ripped off by a 15-year-old who'll charge us pounds 50 for a lump of mud and a piece of paper with oms drawn on it in felt-tip pen. Then realise have already exposed crucial flaw in strategy. Pull over to allow Panda car to pass by in flash of blue. "Bet they've got some dope," Anna says.

1.30am: Suggest phoning Dylan in case, by some long-shot, he would really rather break the habit of the last decade and not have dope at all. "Okay," says Anna. "Promise him anything. A free holiday to Luxor, the restoration of UN inspection rights in Iraq, the rescue of an endangered species..."

1.40am: "Glad you asked," says Dylan, on the other end of the mobile. "Thing is, now I'm dealing I don't need the dope thing anymore. I think I've probably, like, grown out of it." I give thumbs up sign to Anna, who slams on brakes saving lives of two curry-house waiters. She looks at me expectantly as I hang up. "Sorry," I say. "He's gone for the endangered species. He wants..." I can hardly bear to go on, "...a Teletubby."

1.42am: Anna shrugs. "Okay, so we go to Hamley's tomorrow... or better still, go down the market and get one of those flammable pounds 2.99 imposter Teletubbies made by evil Chinese sweatshop bosses." "Anna," I say, shakily. "Do you realise that you can't just go out and buy a Teletubby like a pint of milk? Have you got any idea how scarce they are? They aren't like Tamagotchis you know..." I can hear the hysteria starting in my voice. "There is a national Teletubby crisis, for God's sake, where shop assistants are being crushed at door-opening time in toy shops, where grown adults are willing to stab each other over the last Po and Tinky Winky, where children of divorced parents are holding mummy to ransom and saying that if she can't get them one she doesn't love them as much as daddy does... It would frankly be a fuck of a lot easier to persuade Saddam to snog each of the UN inspectors individually and then declare the free independent state of Kurdistan..." Anna sticks the spliff in my mouth and I shut up. Shit.

2.00am: Both so stressed, decide to try to score anyway.

2.30am: Finally find Tricky's house. Try to ignore boxes of stereos and videos piled up in kitchen. Probably just getting his Christmas presents for the kids in early. Then, box in far corner catches my eye. Wonder if hallucinating due to large "testing-the-gear" bong have just consumed.

2.40am: "Is that box in the corner of the kitchen, erm, full of those flammable pounds 2.99 imposter Teletubbies made by evil Chinese sweatshop bosses?" I ask Tricky. Anna sticks her head up sharply from where she's been inhaling something off the coffee table. "Yeah," says Tricky Dicky. "Why? You moonlighting for trading standards?"

3.00am: Return to south London with Po, LaLa, Dipsy and Tinky Winky all sitting on the back seat of the car and me and Anna practising how to say "'Appy Burfday Dillin" in Teletubbiespeak. In the passenger mirror, I swear, Po winks at me.