36Shirley was waiting for Vince in his consulting room the next morning. ‘Take a seat,’ she said, closing the door.
‘Problem, boss?’
‘You always a problem, bud.’ She pointed a long index finger—finished with bright green nail polish—at his chest, then used it to tick off the red-tipped outstretched fingers on her other hand.
‘You got your eye off the balls round here, you suspended from labour wards, you being sued, you being castrated by the Board, and Pistols Pete waiting in the wing.’
‘Pete Paras! What the hell do you mean?’
‘Pistol sick of solo GP, want to join my group. Does babies, give anaesthetics—like recruiting Gazza Dangerfield!’
‘You must be joking!’
Shirley again pointed at him. ‘So is there a vacancy, Rooned?’
‘No, no, NO!’ Vince said, then paused. ‘Well … maybe.’
Sh
