Early hippy food was disgusting. Universally vile. This was down to everybody being broke, or too stoned to notice what they were eating, and the unavailability of anything interesting.

Eating at Marc Bolan's was no exception. He lived in Notting Hill with his wife June in a sparsely furnished flat where we all sat on the floor. Notting Hill in the early 70s was rundown dirty and almost a no-go area. But it was cheap. The smell of uncured Afghan coats and dope was pervasive and in the summer the pavements rang to the slap of bare hippy feet.

I was there to interview him for a music paper, lured by the promise of lunch. Hah! We smoked dope as a starter. June wandered off to the kitchen and some time later appeared with three bowls of steaming brown rice. Unadorned. Unseasoned. The fashion was to eat macrobiotic food but as nobody could be bothered to read to the end of the book it didn't improve things. Smashed as I was it still tasted filthy and there was absolutely no chance of the munchies.

Bolan was lovely. Elfin to look at, masses of curls and great clothes – a mixture of Biba, velvet trousers from Kensington Market, the obligatory Afghan and girls' button-strap shoes. He was good company and generous with the dope. I was there for hours but could still only eat a couple of mouthfuls of rice; even my dog would have turned it down.