16When he got to work, Vince found Shirley sitting in the tearoom talking to Serena Jorgenson, a masseur and yoga teacher who operated from the Timor Street clinic three days a week. Serena was a thirty-two-year-old New Ager, who wore brightly-coloured cheese cloth shirts, floral happy pants, beaded dreadlocks and copious bangles that jingled and jangled and announced her imminent arrival in a room.
Serena leapt up and enfolded Vince in a warm embrace. ‘Man, you look tense,’ she exclaimed as he disentangled himself. ‘What about a massage?’
‘Yeah, Rooned, you stressed bloke,’ said Shirley with a grin. ‘Maybe you need some colon irrigation? Clean out the bloody toxins, mate.’
Vince knew Shirley had no more time for alternative therapies than he did. Sounded suspiciously like she’d told Se
