With my daughter still asleep in our tent on the last morning of the Golden Plains festival a few weeks ago, I ticked off tasks. Had a crack at cleaning my filthy Orc feet with a baby wipe. Grabbed a bacon and egg toastie. Texted my husband that we’d survived the heat. And hit up the drug and alcohol testing tent to make sure I was fine to drive us out.

For the uninitiated, you do your test then wait in a holding area for results. Maybe it was the early-ish hour, but there were lots of women my age there, unwashed hair scraped into low buns, all of us with no makeup, no hangovers and no discretion. Some of us with diamond studs winking in ears, gold bangles on wrists. Dust-caked sandals were 2021 Marnis.

“I should be right. I only had a tiny bit of LSD,” one told our little random gang. “I’m worried I had that last pinga too late,” said another. There was general consensus cocaine had been a better bet this year than MDMA –“you don’t want your brain to melt” – in the blast furnace conditions that reached almost 40 degrees at the peak of the weekend.

I felt confident about getting the all clear. While we put up the gazebo on Saturday, my millennial camp-mate Nurse Jackie had clocked I was no hardened campaigner. A drug dilettante. Stick to cannabis gummies, said Jackie. A couple of mojitos, maybe.

And thus I wandered about in a bikini and cartwheel hat, nicely off my gourd and feeling ace and safe. Nobody was drinking much. Stashes were dipped into more than eskies. The vibe was mellow and solicitous and fun. On the last night, lolling on a couch with a clutch of gorgeous twenty-something women, generous offers were made to the group’s only old boiler.

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Did Mum want a dexie? (A what?) Did Mum want a bump? Some acid? Nurse Jackie took charge again. “What Mum wants is a sausage in bread and a Passiona.” Geez, she was good. I had a banger time, capped off by an all clear from the testing people. Wished good luck to the ladies still waiting, see you next year.

What I appreciated about that half hour in the drug tent was the frankness. Yes, we were all there for the same reason so it was hard to hide our predilections, but swapping the war stories took it to a new level. These are the conversations we should be having more often, as proved by the semi-hysteria in some circles around this week’s headlines over illicit drug use in the AFL.

When I admitted last year that I prefer a hash brownie to booze, the response was fascinating. Doctors emailed to say emergency departments would be much quieter if alcohol was illegal and marijuana wasn’t. People I’ve known my entire adult life texted: “I didn’t know this about you. Can you make me a batch?”