'Microdosing magic mushrooms helped me overcome the grief of dad's death'

I’m locked in the toilet of a five-star hotel in central London, stuffing £10 notes into a padded envelope before heading up to Mailboxes Inc. where I write out an address and company name. The name sounds more like a weird sex emporium than a perfectly respectable psychedelics dealer and the woman behind the counter, spotting the cash inside the envelope, gives me a wry look that seems to suggest she knows I’m up to something. I squirm, pay the postage, and leave.

I usually stay away from drugs. I have a greediness for sensation, an unquenchable desire for more and more and more, so after a few bad experiences, I stopped. But then, after a period of feeling incredibly low, I was searching for something to bring me back from the edge, and psychedelics presented themselves almost by accident.

Two years previously, my terminally ill father expressed his wish to die at home but Covid had left a nation-wide shortage of carers. I remember the look on one of the