The Diary of Emma D May: Dylan versus the People's Dealer

Sunday 12.01am: Dylan empties his pockets. Two large bags of grass, net worth pounds 200, two ounces of hash (crumbly, pounds 90 each), squashed packet of Rizla (blue, King Size), grubby matchbox stuffed with skunk (personal use only). "I'm being undercut in the South London price war," explains Dylan miserably. "Punters who used to pay pounds 90 for an ounce of hash, just aren't interested any more... I'm, like, downsizing and everything, but the less you buy, the higher the mark-up is." At warehouse party in disused factory by the river. Dylan hasn't sold single bit of dope, even a ten- draw, all night. "I wouldn't mind but I'm a single parent family nowadays," he says. Feel concerned that he may have imaginary children, then realise he is probably talking about his hydroponically-watered dope plants.

12.35am: Dylan suddenly rubs hands with glee. "See that big bloke?" he says. "There walks a man in need of a spliff." Whispered conversation follows. Man walks off. "Gone to get some dosh," says D confidently. Try to humour him as this is his first proper outing since splitting up with Lady Camilla and can sense impending downer.

2.45am: Big bloke walks past again, with v. large spliff and clearly no intention of buying from Dylan. Collar him discreetly and ask who he scored it off. "Guy over there called Rupert," he says. "pounds 60 an ounce." Jesus. It appears that there is some Unfair Competition going on south of the river. Better ask Mr Blair to look into it for us.

3.50am: Find Rupert and score a tenth. Promise self that this is in interests of investigative research and not in anyway to score cheap gear at expense of Dylan's business. While skinning up to "test quality" of hash, take opportunity to ask Rupes about how he is managing to do it so cheap. "Basically to shaft my competitors," he explains in cut-glass tones. "I make so much money on the coke, speed and ecstasy I'm dealing that I can pretty much give the solid away. Anyway, you always get a bigger return on the really addictive stuff, coke, amphetamine... " I frown at him. "But that's not fair!" I say. "You're driving the dope dealers out of business when you don't need to deal in gear at all. Why don't you just stick to Class As?" Rupert shrugs unpleasantly. "Life's not fair, darling," he says, rolling up a pounds 50 note ready to attack fat line of powder. "It's a competitive market and it's in the interests of the consumer to have the cheapest deals possible available. I like to think of myself as the People's Dealer."

4.10am: Split half an e with Dylan to try and cheer him up. Post-Camilla blues clearly starting to kick in and has still not sold a single teeny bit of gear. Worried about explaining Rupert's capitalist mechanism to Dylan in case he suddenly becomes big-time Class A dealer and gets sent down for ten years. "I know I could, like, start dealing Class As," says Dylan, "but I always promised I wouldn't do it because some kid gets stuck on coke and you couldn't live with yourself. I just want to deal in things that, like, grow, man. I see myself more as a herbalist witch-doctor type person than a drug dealer."

5.30am: Decide that only way out of D's dilemma is either to quit the industry altogether and go into a better-paid offshoot (work for Rizla, etc) or try to specialise in highest-quality gear for people who don't mind paying for the stuff. D concerned about the dumbing down of dope. "People just won't pay for quality any more," he mumbles blurrily. Notice that reserves have dwindled heavily since evening began, but think better of a lecture on how the best dealers don't touch their own gear. Rupert wanders past amiably and offers Dylan a free spliff. "You want to start with some giveaways," he says, sniggering. "It's a buyer's market, sweetie. Just ask her." Dylan looks at me like we've been married for 20 years and I've just run off with his sister. Except worse. "Emma, you haven't bought any gear off... " Rupert giggles and wanders off. "Dylan," I begin, pointlessly. "It's not what you think... "