Sunday 12.01am: Can't stay out all night despite being at excellent break-beat party in Camberwell, because is v important day in the dopehead's diary tomorrow - the decriminalise-cannabis demo in Hyde Park. Dylan has been on special mid-week trip to Amsterdam to get supplies in (nothing but skunk, darling, for the biggest date of the cannabinoid's year) and returned with some beautiful, powerful gear - all crystally and sweetsmelling. Keep getting packet out and admiring it, but mustn't have it tonight, must save it all for tomorrow. Don't want to be seen out with a lump of low-grade hash. It's like Oscar night: you've got to be seen with the best designer dope. I've my reputation to think of.

12.10am: "Are you going to skin up with that gear or just sit there admiring it all night?" asks Anna, rudely. "Erm, no," I say, unconvincingly. "It's for the march. And stop dabbing at that speed. It's an early start tomorrow." Take a dab off her anyway as there's still a few hours before bedtime. Dylan still dealing out of our flat, so we've left him to sell his pre- demo goodies in peace.

12.15am: Skin up with skunk. It looked so pretty, just lying there in the packet. Just the one, though, the rest's for tomorrow.

1.20am: Actually feeling a bit stoned. Well, very stoned. Not used to the quality. Feel a bit dizzy even. If in Amsterdam now, someone would be offering me a nice cup of sugared water and I'd be right as rain. "The speed's cut with icing sugar, try that," offers Anna, helpfully.

3.45am: Must go home and get some shut-eye, because lots of walking tomorrow. Unfortunately, every time make a move to go home, DJ puts on top track and have to dance again. "Good exercise anyway," says Anna.

5am: Everyone seems to have ended up back at our's to celebrate dawn. Skunk pile dwindling rapidly as 12 people take it in turns to "try some" using our implausibly large bong. Try and claim it back, but have apparently lost use of legs and arms. Dylan dealing madly. Keeps screaming "we're rich!" in unsubtle manner.

7am: Must go to bed, but idea of clambering past people in bedroom-type direction utterly exhausting. If go to bed, they will obviously continue to play v loud music so won't be able to sleep anyway. Decide to stay in living room and keep an eye on the gear - otherwise could all be gone by morning.

10am: "Look, we'll all go together," says Anna. "I'll go to the shop and get 12 Pot Noodles, you get the kettle on and we'll leave at 11, which is plenty of time. Just let me skin one up for the road."

11am: "I'll go to the shop and get 12 Pot Noodles, you get the kettle on," says Anna. Think I'm experiencing deja vu. "Isn't it that, like, cannabis thing today?" asks Dylan, on the ball as ever. Nod at him helplessly.

12.15pm: Shit. Rally will have started and still have to get across London. Manage to get out complete sentence: "There is still time, ladies and gentlemen, to go to Hyde Park and participate in our democratic right to assembly in the pursuit of the decriminalisation of cannabis." Lie down exhausted.

1pm: Everyone looks at Neil as he gibbers on the sofa: "Clocks! clocks! clocks! Shit!!!" Then sudden moment of realisation. The clocks went back last night. It's 2pm. We've missed it.

1.05pm: Miraculously, we're on the bus and heading towards Hyde Park, anyway, through suspiciously empty streets. "Maybe everyone got arrested," suggests Dylan.

1.50pm: Hyde Park empty of all but a few sodding rollerbladers and the occasional central London flasher. Accost tramp at Speaker's Corner. "We're looking for the cannabis demo," explains Anna. He laughs like a maniac. "You must be stoned, love," he says, between guffaws. "It was yesterday."