I asked the young British doctor doing the prep work if he ever lived in London. He said yes, for a couple of years, he had been a student and London was too expensive. He and his future wife pooled their money every month to survive. This seemed romantic to, although probably only because I hadn’t been the one pooling the money. Poverty is considerably more charming once it belongs to somebody else’s youth. I told him I loved “Waterloo Sunset,” by the Kinks’ despite never having stood on the bridge or anywhere else Ray Davies might have expected me to stand. The doctor said he knew the song. But he did not give much else. No secret British compartment opened. No illumination crossed his face. He didn’t tell me that “Waterloo Sunsetwaterloo sunset’s fne” had saved his marriage or that he and wifey used to stand beside the Thames sharing one sandwich while dreaming of central heating. Suddenly, I realized I once mistook a piece of music for an invitation to discuss it, a mistake I have been making professionally most of my life. I decided there would be no more music talk. From then on I would stick to medicine, a subject about which I know absolutely nothing and therefore have considerably less to say.