Inner North London, top floor flat All white walls, white carpet, white cat, Rice Paper partitions Modern art and ambition The host’s a physician, Lovely bloke, has his own practice His girlfriend’s an actress An old mate from home And they’re always great fun. So to dinner we’ve come.
The 5th guest is an unknown, The hosts have just thrown Us together for a favour because this girl’s just arrived from Australia And has moved to North London And she’s the sister of someone Or has some connection.
As we make introductions I’m struck by her beauty She’s irrefutably fair With dark eyes and dark hair But as she sits I admit I’m a little bit wary because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy Tattooed on that popular area Just above the derrière And when she says “I’m Sagittarien” I confess a pigeonhole starts to form And is immediately filled with pigeon When she says her name is Storm.
Chatter is initially bright and light hearted But it’s not long before Storm gets started: “You can’t know anything, Knowledge is merely opinion” She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon Vis a vis Some unhippily Empirical comment by me
“Not a good start” I think We’re only on pre-dinner drinks And across the room, my wife Widens her eyes Silently begs me, Be Nice A matrimonial warning Not worth ignoring So I resist the urge to ask Storm Whether knowledge is so loose-weave Of a morning When deciding whether to leave Her apartment by the front door Or a window on the second floor.
The food is delicious and Storm, Whilst avoiding all meat Happily sits and eats While the good doctor, slightly pissedly Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history When Storm suddenly she insists “But the human body is a mystery! Science just falls in a hole When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”
My hostess throws me a glance She, like my wife, knows there’s a chance That I’ll be off on one of my rants But my lips are sealed. I just want to enjoy my meal And although Storm is starting to get my goat I have no intention of rocking the boat, Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestle Because -- like her meteorological namesake - Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:
“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy They promote drug dependency At the cost of the natural remedies That are all our bodies need They are immoral and driven by greed. Why take drugs When herbs can solve it? Why use chemicals When homeopathic solvents Can resolve it? It’s time we all return-to-live With natural medical alternatives.”
And try as hard as I like, A small crack appears In my diplomacy-dike. “By definition”, I begin “Alternative Medicine”, I continue “Has either not been proved to work, Or been proved not to work. You know what they call “alternative medicine” That’s been proved to work? Medicine.”
“So you don’t believe In ANY Natural remedies?”
“On the contrary actually: Before we came to tea, I took a natural remedy Derived from the bark of a willow tree A painkiller that’s virtually side-effect free It’s got a weird name, Darling, what was it again? Masprin? Basprin? Asprin! Which I paid about a buck for Down at my local drugstore.
The debate briefly abates As our hosts collects plates but as they return with desserts Storm pertly asserts,
“Shakespeare said it first: There are more things in heaven and earth Than exist in your philosophy… Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality, It can’t explain love or spirituality. How does science explain psychics? Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”
I’m becoming aware That I’m staring, I’m like a rabbit suddenly trapped In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.