‘A fool and her money are soon married,’ the doctor warned, washing his hands at the sink. ‘And on a cougar cruise, a bludging bloke can find a wife he can really bank on. Do warn those sisters of yours. If either one is a woman with money to burn, a toy boy will be her match.’

A punster. Hmm . . . I liked that. Shame it was the only vaguely likeable thing about the insolent, arrogant ratbag.

‘Do you take this woman to the cleaners, for fifty per cent of her income, from this day forth, for richer and richer? You bloody bet he does.’

‘Ha! You doctors can’t talk!’ I retorted. ‘Now, open your wallet wide and say “Ahhh”. Luckily, I took out travel insurance to foot your preposterous bill.’ Although astounded by the quack’s familiarity and rudeness, I was also wise to his ploy. ‘But hey, Doc, be as rude and crude as you like. I’m still not going to report you for unprofessional behaviour, so you can kiss that severance pay goodbye, pal.’ I rearranged my skirt and slid into my sandals, eager to depart.

The doctor shrugged. ‘ABBA-related dance injuries, facial sheet grazes, labial contact dermatitis and a sunburnt arse – clearly, living is dangerous to your health, Ms Ryan. Just try not to be a hazard to yourself from now on, okay?’ He opened the door and signalled to the receptionist to send in his next victim – sorry, I mean patient. ‘Oh . . . and thanks for the laugh, Ryan. You really are the butt of your own joke today.’ He squeezed out another chuckle.

Once more, I found myself executing a melodramatic flounce away from his office. No matter what happened – shark bite, Ebola, leprosy, not even alien abduction and anal probing – absolutely nothing would get me back here. I was not going to subject myself to his odious company again. Hell, I’d rather gnaw my way through my own ovaries.

15

Madame Ovary, I presume? That’s what I thought when I found myself back in the medical centre waiting room the very next day, cursing my luck. I was looking forward to a third encounter with Doctor Dour as enthusiastically as I’d look forward to amateur appendix removal minus anaesthetic. The bloke had the bedside manner of Jack Kevorkian. I contemplated donning scuba goggles or using my swimming towel as a burqa, anything to hide my identity. I just wanted to retreat to my bed and hang a sign on the door reading TODAY IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION – THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING.

‘Rope burn,’ I explained, entering his surgery, palms extended to obscure my face.

Doctor Quinn looked up from the book he was reading, uncrossed his legs, which were kicked up on the desk before him, rocked even further back in his swivel chair and grinned.