Bad Case of the Munchies

Many moons ago I went to Glastonbury Festival. From what I've heard it was the last time the sun shone there, and back then it was a lot smaller than it is now. The festival mainly took up one huge field with various tents for entertainment and food stuffs crammed into whatever corners they could find, and happy hippy campers setting up tents where ever they could find a gap between them.
Back then, there were no cash machines or post boxes, most of the latrines were large holes in the ground covered by tents and with only a plank with a hole in to balance on while you did your business. Security was a lot less stringent then too, and all you needed to do to get in was to show your ticket to the chap with the blue sheep at the main entrance, and off you went into the melee.
I was young and fairly innocent back then, but savvy enough to understand that some roll ups didn't just contain tobacco, and as it was the first time I'd been let loose without any parental guidance at such an event, I was determined to try a few new things.
I decided to give a smoke a try on the last day, and to my surprise found it most relaxing indeed. A few more tokes later and I felt well at one with the world and Glastonbury made total sense to me as I wandered around the stalls selling all sorts of hippy tat, that was now shiny and beautiful to my eyes.
But then I started to get hungry. I needed something sweet, and I needed it right there and then!
I wombled around the various stalls selling Thai food, burgers and organic pasta, but nothing suited my cravings, but then I saw a girl selling flapjacks from a tray by her tent.
"Bingo!" I thought, and scampered over clutching my new leather purse with a magic mushroom motif on it. I asked how much they were, and she informed me that they were fifty pence each , which back in those days was rather a lot to pay for a flapjack, but as they looked so incredibly tasty, I decided to buy two.
Clutching my sweet treats in my paws, I scurried to a comfy spot in the field by the main stage where I could settle down and watch one of the bands I'd been looking forward to seeing.
Tucking into my first flapjack I noticed it had a rather strange taste; sort of slightly bitter and almost musty, but the rest was so scrummy I woofed it down and started on the second.
Next thing I knew the grass was dancing in time to the music, and not only did Glastonbury make sense, but so did the entire Universe and all life that it contained.
I could see the music, I could taste the sunshine, and for the life of me I could not move my legs.
I finally figured out how to lie down, and spent the next three hours on what I can only describe as a trip out to a different galaxy, far, far away...
You guessed it. The flapjacks had an extra ingredient, hence the price.
My friends found me just as I was coming down and with their help I managed to get back off the dancing grass and away from the brightly coloured music.
But the worst bit was that while I'd been planet hopping, I'd forgotten to put sun cream on my legs, and they were rather burnt, especially on the backs.
I suffered the next day as we drove back home, mainly because not only was I still rather 'not quite with it', but the seats in the car were made of plastic and sitting on them in hot sunshine with sun burnt legs for five hours was not the most pleasant of experiences.
I haven't smoked any strange roll ups since.
I've also stayed well away from flapjacks as well, just in case.