Back when I was a kid, Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men liked Little Weed.

And today, it seems that just about everybody does.

It’s impossible to go out for a walk with the dog and not catch a whiff of it at some point. Groups of youngsters on park benches are the biggest culprits.  Whenever we walk past, there is always a sickly sweet smell hanging in the air around them… and it’s not Lynx Africa.

A chap walked past me last night on the footpath and as soon as he had gone by, a pungent, sweet, minty aroma hit me full in the face.

To be fair, it’s not as bad as getting a facefull of fag smoke, but nonetheless, it’s not to my liking.

Of course, I say ‘weed’, but I’m not really sure what that even is. Cannabis? Marajuana? Skunk? Ganja (is that the same thing?)? I suppose I could look it up, but I can’t be bothered.

I’ve never been interested in – or dabbled with – drugs, any drugs… apart from that one wild time in my youth, when I tried some Junior Disprin.

I don’t understand why these people want to walk around stoned all the time… what’s the attraction?

And this morning, as I was taking the dog on her daily drag along the meadow, I found a small blue pot laying in the grass (pot… grass… you can see where this is going). I picked it up and had a look inside. That’s it in the photo.

Inside was a small plastic bag containing what was undoubtably weed. Out of interest, I weighed it: quarter of an ounce.  Now, I know from watching the brilliant Ideal on iPlayer, that this stuff is sold in quarters, eighths and sixteenths, but I have no idea what it actually costs.

But I bet that someone out there is kicking themselves for having lost it.

They can come and collect it from me if they like… it’s in my rubbish bin.