Over the past few years, I have become surrounded by mushrooms. We all have. Tea, T-shirts, supplements, documentaries, books, charms, cushions, tinctures—and chocolate. I saw a slab being handed round at a 40th recently, then chatted to a friend who’d had a nibble to take the edge off at a five-year-old’s birthday party. In my hedonistic university days, magic mushrooms were taken exclusively by people who dressed like wizards; now this drug is ubiquitous and it looks like artisanal Dairy Milk.
It was during lockdown that I first heard of friends going on “shrooms walks,” blissing out in nature and enjoying enhanced perception, a trippy glow. Next, the clubbers I know began taking them on nights out for the rainbow visuals and lack of hangover. Tech bros and finance types proselytize about microdosing tiny amounts to help with daily focus and decision-making. Suddenly, many of the stressed parents I am friends with are doing so too, explaining that they play better and are more patient with their kids because of it.
