‘Yes, Henrik wasn’t allowed to become an Australian,’ Wolfgang explains to me, looking amused. ‘Here in Sweden we are very controlled by our women.’ Suddenly Wolfgang changes tack. ‘So,’ he says, ‘let us talk about the conference tomorrow.’

He leads me into his office to show me the template for the poster and explain how the presentation will work.

‘It’s not so hard,’ he assures me. ‘You just stand next to it and for two minutes answer some questions. We will be there if it gets too difficult.’ He looks at his watch. ‘We have to go and operate,’ he tells me. ‘You can join us if you like.’

To be totally honest, the last thing I feel like is standing in an operating theatre for ten hours, but it would be rude to turn him down, so I half-heartedly agree and follow him out the door.

Within minutes I am standing at a sink, scrubbing in next to Wolfgang as he peppers me with questions about Dr Prince and life back in Australia. I can’t believe I’ve gone from a scrub sink in the southern hemisphere to one in the northern hemisphere and wonder for a second why we couldn’t have done something slightly more relaxing, like go for a drink, instead.

Doctors, I think with a sigh. It doesn’t matter which part of the world they’re in, they still can’t help themselves.

A nurse comes over to let us know the patient is asleep. She gives me a funny look.

‘Tjena!’ I say brightly, since it’s the only Swedish word I know.

‘Hej Hej,’ she replies coldly, before exchanging a few quick words with Wolfgang in Swedish.

Wolfgang clears his throat. ‘Kitty, this is Astrid, my girlfriend.’

Astrid gives me a frosty smile. She is extremely slim, with honey-brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Her features are so symmetrical it seems impossible. She is undeniably beautiful, in a perfect Scandinavian ice queen kind of way. No wonder he wanted to sleep with Nicole, I think. She might not look like a Scandinavian supermodel, but she exudes sexuality.

Astrid says something else in Swedish, then turns and enters the operating theatre.

Wolfgang looks at me. ‘You’re coming?’

‘Ah, yes … yes!’ The jetlag is kicking in and I just hope like hell there’s a stool I can sit on.

The Europeans, I soon discover, are even more psychotic than the surgeons back in Sydney. After seven hours—including a lunchbreak during which they leave the patient asleep on the table, and then the discovery that there’s a slight complication, so the operation will now probably take another seven hours—I’ve had enough.

‘Um, guys, I’m going to head back to the hotel.’

They’re so focused they don’t even raise their heads, but Tomas acknowledges my words with a nod. Wolfgang, without taking his eyes off the brain, bids me farewell.