Here in the Cotswolds, every Christmas is WHITE… because all the middle-class women are snorting cocaine at parties. And I’m truly shocked by what THESE school mums get up to…

The grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight almost an hour ago and I’m on my last legs.

The school carol service is tomorrow afternoon when my two daughters separate; I still have to do my Christmas shopping and I’m working until the 24th.

But I am the victim of an old, upper-middle-class sailor. A woman in a sequined dress has been talking to me for at least 45 minutes. And the problem is, I can tell from the speed of the sentences, the way she repeats herself and the slightly glazed look in her eyes, that she’s enjoying a completely different party than I am.

Yes, her evening involves large quantities of cocaine. Welcome to the Cotswolds where – if you know the ‘right’ people – every Christmas is white.

We live in an idyllic place. Honey-coloured stone houses are nestled in undulating emerald hills, with large stretches of gravel driveway leading to large front doors in muted Farrow and Ball green and blue. The women are dressed in cashmere and Lululemon and organic vegetables are delivered weekly.

But behind the keratin treatments and manicured box hedges lies an underbelly of cocaine use that is as mundane as a dog walk or a morning vegetable juice.

When we moved here seven years ago, I was surprised to learn that there were large amounts of Class A drugs present during the school run and breathwork classes.

I’m not naive. I know that drugs have always been prevalent among the wealthy and that cocaine in particular adds a little spice to the weekend, or the monotony of waiting for husbands to return from town. And yet I had no idea how many middle-aged women have adopted this habit, nor how regularly they do it.

If you think it’s just some weird party, think again. I’ve seen mums sneak off to do drugs at lunch parties, at children’s tea (those big pantries come in handy!) and even at school events.

Cocaine is not like alcohol. You can’t smell it and generally people aren’t winding around or talking incoherently after taking it. Those who partake in it consider it a sneaky hidden vice, something clever to get you through boring social events and stay up late during the fun ones. And never more so than at Christmas.

A few years ago, during a carol service at school, I sat watching the woman in front of me, trembling and even growling slightly, as the lessons were read.

I watched her afterwards as we drank watered down mulled wine, ate mince pies and bought overpriced scented candles made by another mother. She was talking in a ridiculously animated way, but you probably couldn’t tell what was really going on until you recognized the signals.

It all seems so pathetic to me. Sure, I thought this kind of performance was pretty cool and subversive in my early twenties, but now that I’m in my mid-forties, I find it a reckless and wasteful thing to do.

Frankly, I despise those who use drugs. We all have responsibilities now and – most importantly – children. If the pranks I witnessed took place on a council estate, social services would be called in. But because it falls among the wealthy and privileged, it is seen as sexy, hedonistic – and acceptable.

My husband and I have less money than our hard-partying neighbors, but we both went to private school and have successful jobs; he is in real estate and I am an accountant.

In the late 90s we partied as hard as anyone. I relished the rebelliousness of it as I strolled to the bathroom in giggling couples, and I loved the delicious tang as that first line trickled down the back of my throat, bringing with it a sigh of energy and confidence.

But I won’t forget the mornings afterward either: the self-loathing, the headaches, the bloating, and the exhaustion.

By the time we got married in 2012, both in our early 30s, we had kicked cocaine firmly to the sidelines, and so had most of our London friends.

Imagine my surprise when we moved to the country a few years later and discovered that the partying was as intense as you would find at any Fulham gathering ten years earlier. I’m not a prude, and I have nothing against Mom’s wine time, but Mom’s drug time was an eye-opener.

It first became clear that some women needed more than homemade protein bars when I was invited to a school mom’s birthday lunch a few months after we moved.

I made friends carefully and she really was one of the alphas, complete with an aristocratic husband, glamorous friends staying over at the weekend, beautiful clothes and the most incredible stone country house in the Cotswold.

I felt honored to be there, and very shy, as I walked into her huge kitchen. But after delicious poached salmon, our hostess disappeared for a few minutes with one of the other mothers. When they returned, another bottle of white wine was opened and they seemed much more talkative.

As the afternoon progressed, it became increasingly clear that most of them were using cocaine. I had to go to school later, so I drank half a glass of wine for hours, feeling increasingly gauche as the conversations around me grew louder. When I left at 5pm, everyone looked like they were getting ready for the evening.

That opened my eyes and I realized that there was a whole social group that was known for not getting much sleep from Friday to Sunday.

The good friends I made were just like me and worked during the week: a lawyer, a GP and a teacher, and none of them had any interest in drugs. We all agreed that in this age of social media, it wasn’t worth risking our jobs; All it takes is one #greatnightout and a picture of us next to a pile of white powder to be unemployed. Or worse.

But we were all invited to dinners where, after chocolate fondant, the ‘real’ pudding would emerge.

I sometimes found it boring to say no, but a London friend had a heart attack at the age of 40 due to cocaine use. It simply no longer appealed. And when I saw forty- and even fifty-year-olds sweating, roaring and grunting, I didn’t exactly feel like I was missing anything.

It got to the point where around midnight, when the party would – literally – kick up a few notches, my husband and I would sneak away and enjoy a full night of peaceful sleep.

If you asked them, none of these slender, beautifully coiffed women and their florid husbands would consider themselves addicted. After all, a little fun can’t hurt, right?

The stuff is bought from well-spoken people in the local pub or from ‘my man’ in one of the larger towns.

But, as I remember from my holidays, cocaine can easily go from fun to a problem. I think cocaine is always used to fill a hole. That white powder is the soft cry of those whose lives are seemingly perfect, but are in fact missing something fundamental and fulfilling.

Moreover, what is pure Scott Fitzgerald or Jilly Cooper glamor at three in the morning is very different when you are buying Diet Coke in the village shop the next day, snorting inelegantly, your skin gray and grimy from the previous night’s inclinations.

And what about sex? After all, cocaine lowers inhibitions. A few years ago I went to a party in a beautiful barn. It was beautifully decorated with outdoor fire pits and a cocktail bar. My husband and I left, as usual, at midnight, when the music got faster and the voices faster.

The next day the rumor mill was churning that a married couple (not each other) had been missing for quite some time and were looking rather disheveled.

What I find most disturbing is that children are never immune to parental behavior. Now that they are older, they know very well what their parents are up to, and I personally would be afraid of them following in their footsteps.

Friends in a neighboring village brag about how close they are to their sons, who are in their twenties. On weekends they all use drugs together. What a wonderful family bond that must be.

I wouldn’t say I hate the holidays I spend among the shiny posse, but between all the meal prep and gift buying, I harden myself because I’m bored senseless by those who can’t enjoy a evening out without chemical help.

Let it snow, let it snow – but only if it comes from the sky.