The Surgery of Mirrors

Dr Ima Kwak hesitated. The oblique angle of the antique mirror captured him seated in his wood-panelled office; the leather olive-green captain’s chair highlighted his status. He caught himself glancing and sighed. That advert had sounded promising.

“Immersive Scenarios ensure every trainee surgeon is practice-ready for ONLY a fraction of your traditional cost.”

Still he held back from clicking the know-more link. The responsibilities of Regional Post-Graduate Dean in Medical Education had over the 26 years seeped, morphed and varicosed as if from an untreatable haemophiliac. It now included fiscal responsibility and he was at heart a clinician not an accountant.

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The seven blood hounds

I met Dai on Fabian Way

He had a flask, tea he’d say

Quick he moved, his purpose grim

Did not stop, they were after him

Who they were, I could not see.

And when I did, they were after me.

Across the bridge, up Castle Way

Lord above, too late to pray.

Out in front, a shadow rode.

On a bike, with a cursed load.

Saint Andere, but nor for hire.

A dreadful stare, and spat hell fire.

Down the hill, towards the sea.

Smelt their breath, near Anna Quay.

I will no lie, no perjury

There at last, Marina Surgery.

The wait was long, that much was true.

We were many, the doctors few.

Dr Faustus and Dr Soul

Annual check-ups were never dull.

Apologies to Shelley!

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