One Man's Poison

Picture the scene: a penthouse flat in the classier part of the city. Fashionable wall hangings adorn the, er, walls. Paisley-patterned cushions and pastel-coloured bean bags are strewn across the floor with gay abandon. A gaggle of twenty-somethings are lolling around, chattering away and swigging expensive lager and fine wine like they're going out of fashion.

One of the sweet young things yawns, stretches and, like a practitioner of legerdemain, produces a large glass cylinder from thin air. Taking a large bottle of spring water, she slowly and carefully fills the device.

"Contributions!" calls our host. Various members of the assembled company start rifling through their pockets and handbags before presenting an assortment of red, green, yellow and black lumps of certain sweet-smelling substances for his inspection. Carefully selecting a little bit of this¹, a little bit of that², he politely thanks his guests and, in an arcane ceremony, briefly passes the materials over a cigarette-lighter before crumbling the soft goodness into the bowl attached to the side of the cylinder. The remaining substances are rewrapped in cling film and returned to their respective glass jars, tins and makeup cases before those too disappear whence they came.

Meanwhile, one young lady is sitting open-mouthed, staring in mounting horror at the scene of untold debauchery unfolding before her. Just as the bong is about to be lit, she leaps to her feet and exclaims: "I'm not staying in this OPIUM DEN for another minute!" She hurriedly picks up her coat and storms out, slamming the door behind her, never to be seen again.

A deathly silence descends on the room as the bong is passed from one debauchee to the next. Finally the host exhales with the observation: "Silly cow, the opium den's next door."

Well, that's how I remember heard it.

¹ Green Moroccan
² Afghani black