PART FIVE
When Sinnick finally reached the reception desk he’d forgotten about the missed phone calls.
“Ah there you are, Doctor Sinnick,” Mrs. Pettifer said. “Where on earth have you been? You know the procedure. If you leave the building you must inform a member of my staff.”
“I didn’t leave the building, Mrs. P.”
“Then where have you been? Someone called Paddy has been calling every few seconds. I can’t waste valuable management time on private matters, Doctor Sinnick.”
With perfect timing, the phone rang again. “It’s that man Paddy again, Doctor Sinnick. I’ve already instructed my staff not to answer it. We’ve run out of excuses.”
“But excuses are strictly forbidden, Mrs. P.”
“Don’t you come over all pedantic with me, Doctor Sinnick. I know our procedures. Where have you been for the last hour?”
Sinnick sank to his knees before Mrs. Pettifer’s chair, putting his hands together in a prayer for forgiveness. “Sorry Mrs. Pettifer Never again. It’s not my intention to drive you insane with my shameful behaviour and utter disdain.”
From the floor, he grabbed the ringing phone. "Krupton Community Health Centre. Here for the good, the bad, the impure. The rich, the poor, the sore. But never forget our motto: Prevention is better than cure."
"Is that you Sinnick?"
“Chips away, Paddy. Got the fryer going yet?”
“Gabriela and Agnieska are in charge. Point is, it’s Quentin. He’s had an accident.”
“In London?”
“He never went. He’s here in Krupton.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He fell down. Maybe he’s broken his ankle. He’s in excruciating pain. The silly fool bought some new shoes and the heel gave out.”
“Did he get a guarantee?”
“Second hand. Help the Aged. I was holding him up to practice walking but the heel went so quick, we both fell in a heap. I called you first. Then I called Charlie.”
“What’s Charlie doing?”
“Looking for somewhere to park his Honda. You want to talk to Quentin?”
“Put him on.”
“Sinnick?”
“Morning, Quent. What’s up?”
“My high heels gave out.”
“High heels? What are you talking about, man?”
“Nice red ones, size eleven, wide fitting. Fitted perfectly once I took my socks off. It was the heel. I twisted my ankle trying to negotiate a drain cover and the thing just snapped off. I fell in a heap with Paddy on top of me. The ankle’s so swollen I can’t even get my Church’s lace-ups back on. But I don’t want to cause a scene or call an ambulance. It’s my reputation.”
“You don’t have a reputation, Quent.”
“I will do when my book’s published.”
Sinnick, was still sitting on the floor on a level with Mrs. Pettifer’s bare knees.
“Doctor Sinnick! Move away. What are you looking at?”
Sinnick blinked. “Let me get this straight, Quent. You’ve just bought a pair of high heeled shoes?”
“Red.”
“Why?”
“Research, Sinnick. I’ll tell you later but right now I’m stuck. Paddy’s here but I think I need crutches.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside Help the Aged.”
“Stay there. I’ll get to you as soon as I can. Take my advice. Don’t move.”
When Charlie arrived, Sinnick was examining Quentin’s ankle. Paddy was watching. Quentin was groaning.
Sinnick stood up. “Swelling, tenderness, bruising, pain, underlying tissue damage, turning blue, stiffness setting in.”
Quentin groaned again. “What the hell are doctors for? To describe a patient’s symptoms to the patient?”
Sinnick ignored him. “We need a wheelchair.”
“What about crutches?” Charlie suggested.
“X ray?” Paddy added.
Sinnick frowned. “Who’s the doctor around here?”
“You are Sinnick,” Quentin said. “Just do something before Sandra the Panda walks by.”
“You met her?”
“If she sees a weakened man, she might drag me to her cauldron.”
“That’s definitely Sandra.”
“They rent out wheelchairs at Fook’s” Charlie said.
“At last. Something positive,” Paddy added. “How do we get it here from your digs?”
“Not my Fook’s,” Charlie replied. “Doctor Fook’s Centre for Chinese Herbal Remedies and Training School for Oriental Alternative Therapy and Acupuncture next to Gregg’s the Baker.”
“Get one,” Sinnick commanded. “I can’t sit here all-day holding Quentin’s foot.”
Charlie returned in ten minutes pushing a wheelchair. “Twenty pounds deposit, three pounds a day rental. Seemed reasonable but I didn’t bring my wallet.” Charlie’s cash problem was obvious by the flush behind his thick beard.
Sinnick saw it. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Where shall we take him?” Charlie asked
“My place is closest,” Paddy suggested. “If we can get him up the stairs.”
“We can’t put hm on my Honda without a crash helmet,” Charlie added.
Quentin looked up. “Would you care to include me in the decision making?”
“I don’t make decisions anymore, Quentin,” Sinnick admitted, “They’ve been driven out of me.”
“Then push me to Paddy’s place,” Quentin instructed. “Sinnick, helmsman, Paddy to port, Charlie to starboard. Let’s go. Reconvene later. Plenty to discuss.”
Sinnick had long wanted his own private clinic. A private clinic meant he could do what he liked and employ whoever he wanted. Gone would be the days when others would sit in on interviews reminding him about employment regulations, disallowed questions and criticising his interviewing techniques. His choice of staff would be his own. He could turn his dream team of neat little nurses in white uniforms with winning smiles and quaint little hats into reality and star in his own jaunty YouTube adverts where he would start off saying “Hi everyone it’s Albert here. Today I’m going to show you………”
A flash of inspiration made him sit up from where he was slouched over his computer screen trying to find something that rhymed with epididymis. “Sling,” he said suddenly. “He’d know a thing or two.”
He wandered along the corridor, peering through doors and finding no-one. In the main office Mrs. P was in a huddle with her band of staff. Sinnick held back because it had all the hallmarks of a union meeting. He coughed and heads turned.
“Yes?” Mrs. P said crossly.
“Sorry to interrupt. I was looking for Sling, Mrs. P.”
“Doctor Ling has a consultation.”
“Consultation? We don’t do consultations, Mrs. P. We hand out useless prescriptions to anyone who calls in. Consultations are for those who can afford to go private, to take as long as they like because the clock just keeps ticking. He’s not, is he, Mrs. P?”
“Not what, Dr Sinnick?”
“Doing private stuff on the side.”
“Linda likes his ideas for alternative therapy.”
“Linda? Who, pray, is Linda?”
“Linda Carey.”
Sinnick stood stock still, suddenly struck by a mental image of patient Linda Carey and her head of hair that resembled an abandoned stork’s nest. She’d been waiting in his room while he visited the toilet and he’d emerged having accidentally left the tail of his white short hanging through the broken front zip of this trousers. His hand-written patient notes still included the phrase: ‘Must be wary of Linda Carey.’
Sinnick snapped out of his trance. “So sorry to trouble you, Mrs. P. I look forward to receiving the minutes of your staff meeting later.”
He was saved by the sound of Sling’s voice. “Ah, Sling, where have you been? I asked around but you hadn't been seen.”
Sinnick always began with “Ah” when talking to Sling because ethnic diversity regulations stated he must sympathize with Sling’s Singaporean origin. But Sling looked nervous. He shuffled towards the empty nurse's room, his regular hiding place and tried to shut the door but Sinnick put his foot in the way. Sling turned, twisting his Charlie Chaplin-style moustache.
“Patient Wary,” Sinnick said trying to sound strong, dominant and mightily suspicious like the senior partner he was. “Explain.”
“Ah, you mean patient Cary?” Sling corrected.
“Ah, so. Scary wary Linda Carey. What’s her problem?”
“Eczema. Hydrocortisone not work so I try special cream. Also not work.”
“Ah. So, why not work?”
“Maybe not eczema after all, lah.”
“Aha. So, what next, lah?”
Sling was twisting his moustache so rapidly in one direction that Sinnick expected the adhesive to fail and for it to drop to the floor. “Maybe just temporary allergy soon to go, clear up, like. I ask what she now use for cosmetic. Where buy. If powder or cream or defoliating compound or maybe she’s using highlight enhancer or infusi gel.”
Sinnick listened, bemused, wondering if this new pharmacological terminology had an oriental origin. He stared with his mouth open as a spot of blood from his morning shave oozed and glistened on his chin. “What do we run here, Sling? Are we running a French cosmetics clinical testing research institute?”
Sling, still unused to Sinnick’s foreign way with words, tried to chuckle. He sometimes found him amusing, sometimes threatening and sometimes constructive, but he was usually left completely baffled, unsure whether to laugh, cry or try matching him in a stand-up comedy routine. What Sling didn’t want was to lose face and Sinnick was confusing him by staring at him strangely, though whether with affection or utter dislike Sling couldn’t tell. He decided to laugh. “Ha, Ha. Very good, lah.”
Sinnick examined the spot of fresh blood now on his finger confident in knowing that while his old razor was blunt his way with words was sharp.
“Sling! Did they not teach you anything during your time treating the inmates of Changi prison? And what did you learn during your short stay in Hong Kong? The pharmacology of white rhino horn? Did you learn anything from ancient Chinese scrolls about the optimum level of dried crocodile penis required to increase the size of your own tiny appendage? Did you study the bioavailability of the active ingredients contained in the bark of the wallah-wallah tree illegally felled from the deep and sweaty jungles of neighbouring Borneo?”
He paused, distracted by memories of an ancient poem of his that had linked the words bewitching and twitching. He shut his eyes trying desperately to eliminate the words but it was no use. For some unfathomable reason he had to mention Sling’s twitching moustache. “What about studying the psychological benefits of hair implants on upper lips?”
Sling laughed again still hoping it was all a joke. “No, lah. I never shaved it off after I played Hitler in the Christmas play at Raffles Medical Centre.”
“A Christmas play that involved Adolf Hitler?” Sinnick shrieked. “Didn’t you organise decent pantomimes based on classic English fairy tales like Cinderella, Puss in Boots or Hansel and Gretel out there?”
Sling’s laughter increased. “Ha, ha, ha. No, lah, we decided Hitler needed to be put in his place after wrecking the country. Ha, ha, ha.”
“It was the bloody Japanese who wrecked Singapore, not Hitler, Sling! What do you think your war museum on Sentosa is all about? A North American Indian invasion? A hoard of Mongolians marching down the Malaysian peninsula from Russia? Why we ever ran the country in the first place I don’t know. We should have handed it over to the Japanese.”
“You did,” Sling reminded him.
Sinnick desperately tried to remember his World War Two history.
“Yes, well. We were unprepared and it was far too humid for the sort of thing we’re good at. Our boots were designed for real weather - wind, rain, mud and snow - not hot, sticky stuff. Flip-flops would have been better.”
Sinnick’s mind diverted: flip-flops almost rhymed with dish-mops. He’d ned to remember that. “What were we talking about? Ah, yes. Linda Wary. So, in your oriental wisdom, what did you decide might counter the side effects of extortionately priced face cream?”
“Dr Fook’s Aloe Vera with Coriander and Thai Basil Lanolin mixture,” Sling replied.
Sinnick stared, speechless.
“Ah, but I didn’t prescribe it. No, lah,” Sling continued. “I suggested that things didn’t look serious to me and it was probably best left alone for a day or so to clear up. But she’s a very determined woman, lah. She insisted. So…….”
Sinnick nodded understandingly. A possible explanation was now at hand. “Ah, I see now,” he said kindly. “You must learn about English women, Sling. They are utterly obsessed. They believe medicine or surgery is the answer to everything. Even a tiny blackhead that decent men like you and I take for granted as a daily occurrence causes them sleepless nights. Sagging breasts, abdomen and buttocks that you and I look at in admiration as an example of the effects of gravity on human soft tissue are, to them, a disaster requiring extensive, not to say expensive, surgery. So, I can fully understand her concern about finding a red blemish on her cheek this morning.”
Sinnick tenderly touched his own red blemish and Sling seized his chance. “Chinese women are the same, lah. It's how Doctor Fook got his ideas and built his business empire and became a millionaire.”
“Doctor Fook? So Fook is a Chinese entrepreneur and also handy with a wok Sling?”
“Yah, yah. Many clever Fook's, lah."
“Do they also hire out wheelchairs, Sling?”
“Ah yes, lah. Anything to make money, lah.”
Sinnick’s mind could now picture the bright, red and yellow establishment he’d passed many times. “Ah so,” he said. “Many Fooks. I wondered what it said in all that flowery Chinese lettering plastered over the front window, down the side and into next door. I once peered into its dark interior and thought it was a Dutch massage parlour. Tell me, Sling, what does Doctor Fook keep in those jars at the back? They reminded me of the shelves in the mortuary at the General Hospital.”
A faint suspicion had arisen that Fook might turn out to be Sling’s brother in law and that Sling was a sleeping partner in the business. All the same, the information was interesting. “So,” Sinnick said. “How is Doctor Fook’s business?”
“I don’t know, lah,” Sling replied. "Fook runs a nursing home for old Chinese folk called Golden Arches and…….”
Sinnick liked that name. It registered somewhere in his frontal lobe where Freud lived that some other organisation might have already staked a claim to it but he couldn’t immediately place it. Sling was still talking. “……. the shop in Krupton is run by Chu and Chu’s brother-in-law Chiu.”
“What a co-incidence, lah,” Sinnick said. “Two Chus.”
“No, no. One Chu and one Chui, lah.”
Sinnick frowned. “Ah, but according to Einstein, though perhaps not Confucius, one Chu plus another Chu equals two Chus Sling. Were you not aware?”
“No, lah.” Sling’s Hitler moustache split into a downside and an upside as if he thought Sinnick was an idiot. “Chu from Dragon Garden restaurant and Chiu from Golden Wall Chinese Takeaway. Brothers-in-law, lah. And then there’s Choo at Fook’s Wok, lah.”
“Three Chus! How extraordinary. They diversified did they Sling? From Chinese cooking to Chinese herbal medicine and acupuncture to old people’s homes. Tell me, how do they find time to run so many businesses? And I still don’t understand why one Chu plus two other Chus doesn’t equal three Chus?"
“Not Chu, lah, Chu and Chui and Choo.”
“Forgive me, Sling but one man’s Chu is another man’s Chu surely.”
By now, Sling was visibly frustrated. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. “Ah la ma. Not Chu, lah. Chiu. Notice how I say Chiu and then I say Chu and then I say Choo. You see, lah? Different, lah. Chu is Chu, Chiu is Chiu and Choo is Choo.”
Sinnick walked away having already forgotten why he’d wanted to see Sling.
Quentin had made himself at home on Paddy’s sofa.
“More tea, Quent?” Paddy asked.
“Thanks. More sugar and less milk this time.”
Quentin’s phone, that was lying on the table rang with a loud blast of heavy metal, the opening bars of Fire Over Water. “I’ll get it for you, Quent. Deep Purple a favourite band?”
“Some prankster of a kid uploaded it when I was distracted. Fetch it quickly will you Paddy? It sounds terrible and what comes next is the same as what went before. Thanks. Hello?”
"Ah," the voice said. "Is that Mr. Kelp?"
"It is. How may I help you?"
"I'm looking for advice, ah.”
Quentin, recognizing a Chinese accent, understandably assumed a wrong number but the caller continued. "Mr. Charlie gave me your number. Have problems in Chinese community, ah."
Quentin, the experienced politician, nodded to himself. It was Triads, Mahjong cheats or overcrowding somewhere – most likely in the bedsit above Charlie’s. Charlie had mentioned josh stick smoke drifting down from upstairs.
"Yes, ah. Doctor Sinnick already know, ah. Sickness in community."
"But Sinnick’s supposed to inform me of anything serious affecting the health of our thriving community,” Quentin said.
“But it’s happened since you were so heavily defeated, Mr. Kelp.”
Why had he used the word heavily? Quentin’s emotions were too fragile for hearing the scale of his defeat.
The caller continued: “Like Delhi belly can get from Indian food but Chinese food never have problem, ah," the man continued.
“You mean Canton Craps?”
“Ah.”
"Is this not a matter for the health inspection team? Food standards? Is Doctor Sinnick not legally required to notify authorities about outbreaks of Canton Craps?"
"Doctor Sinnick also had it, ah. Had king prawn sweet and sour with special fried lice ah."
"And what happened?"
“Up all night ah. Mrs. Sinnick also ah."
Poor old Sinnick, Quentin thought. Bad enough getting diarrhea yourself but to put up with the wife blaming you for hers as well didn't bear thinking about. "So, what do you want me to do?"
"Check on evil Hell’s Angel with beard who live upstairs, ah. No-one trusts him. We suspect sulleptitious spiking of steamed lice.”
“But Mr. Charlie’s the one who advised you to speak to me.”
There was a definite pause. “Ah yes,” the caller said as if he hadn’t thought of that. “But sickness it spread now, Mr. Kelp.”
“Spread? How far?”
“Grey Gables Old Person's Home. Monday night is Bingo, Tuesday is curry night, Wednesday is Comedy Night and Thursday night is Fook’s Chinese take-away night.”
It took a while for Quentin to digest that. His imagination was running wild. Most of the residents at Grey Gables were ladies in their eighties or nineties. One or two had reached triple figures but they had been a good source of votes. It would be a shame to lose them before the next election.
“Leave it with me, Mr. Chu,” Quentin said. “Why not recommend a Paddy’s fish and chips night until we get to the bottom of it?” Then he switched the phone off.
Paddy returned. “Here’s your tea, Quent. Less milk, more sugar and already stirred. Why not relax with your feet up on my sofa?”
“Put it there. Meanwhile, we need to plan a trip to Grey Gables Old Person's Home, Paddy.”
“In your state, Quent?
“Most of those who enter Grey Gables are in wheelchairs, Paddy. Their usual method of exit is also on wheels.”
“What are you saying, Quent?”
“Another good idea, Paddy. I’ve already drafted chapters on younger women. Let’s move on to the older ones. Call Sinnick and Charlie.”
At the clinic, Sinnick rushed through his final list of patients. He’d been summoned to an urgent meeting with Quentin, Paddy and Charlie later but, other things were on his mind. He scurried up the High Street, past Paddy’s, talking to Freud.
“Where are we going?”
“Dr Fook’s Centre for Chinese Herbal Remedies and Training School for Oriental Alternative Therapy and Acupuncture next to Gregg’s. I have ideas. We need to get there before it shuts.”
“You've peered through its darkened windows. You've walked past its glittering exterior. It's time to go inside. An entrepreneur must make his move."
“I know that, Freud. Now you listen to me. This is the plan.”
Racing past the Help the Aged shop and Sandra’s, Sinnick explained.
“Wah. And what’s its name? Tell me. The tension is killing me,” Freud said.
“We’ll call it ‘Sinnick’s Hair Inducing Treatment’. I need to make enough for a clinical trial, one of which needs to be a human not a cat. But it’s a good name is it not, Freud? Sinnick defines the inventor. Hair defines the target. Inducing describes the purpose and calling it a treatment places it in a different league to shampoos. It says it originates from the inventive mind of an experienced physician not the test tube of a junior laboratory technician working for some jumped up French cosmetics company. Let’s go in.”
Sinnick pushed open the door expecting, of course, to find the proprietor himself busy with patients, students and those browsing the many options for alternative oriental therapies. But when the front door scraped open it was an electronic buzzer with an obvious electrical fault that welcomed him. Feeling as if he'd just entered North Korea by mistake Sinnick stepped off the mat and the buzzer stopped. Above his head red lanterns hung on threads of red silk and its resemblance to a Dutch massage parlour still seemed good enough although Sinnick had never visited Holland. Nevertheless, he had always imagined a lady dressed in crimson silk, her bosom half exposed and her long legs, wrapped in black, fishnet stockings, crossed as far up as her crotch. She might even have been smoking a cigarette in a long silver holder. “See anything, Freud?”
“Nothing.”
“Hear anything?”
Sinnick crept forward. Towards the back were the shelves he had seen from the street and, yes, it was now easy to see that his description to Sling that they resembled the mummified remains of body parts was accurate. The only sign of a sales counter was another cabinet, bottles stacked beneath and a shiny wooden top that invited leaning. Sinnick leaned. Then he whistled a few lines from ‘Old MacDonald had a Farm’. On the third EIEIO he wondered if it might be worth standing on the Welcome mat again but then there was the sound of feet, shuffling towards him. "Why do Chinese scuff everywhere in flip flops, Freud?
“Bound feet during childhood.”
Sinnick turned towards the scuffing sound and saw a young Chinese-looking man wearing jeans torn at the knees and a black jacket with the hood in the safe ‘down’ position. As he emerged from the gloom Sinnick glanced at his feet. Flip flops.
“Good afternoon,” Sinnick said. “Rain's stopped. Turned out nice again – lah.”
“S'not so bad.”
Sinnick quickly tuned in. This was a local Chinese who probably couldn’t even point to China or Hong Kong on a map. Sinnick dropped his planned ahs and lahs.
“First off, here’s twenty-five quid, mate. Deposit for wheelchair plus a day or so’s rental.”
“Cheers, mate.”
Sinnick watched the notes disappear into the pocket of his jeans and then started on the purpose of his visit using pure Krupton-speak.
“Got any lanolin, mate? Paraffin wax? Any nice perfumes like Scottish raspberry, Granny Smith apple or Victoria plum? Keep such things in stock, do you? Or do I have to order specially, like? What about pure, liquid soap? Glycerine? Anything for dandruff? Got any artificial colouring like blue copper sulphate or a rich purple potassium permanganate? Keep any saffron in stock? How about fertilizer? Got anything for growing orchids? What about hydrogen peroxide to make the colours go away?”
“This is the place my man. We got most of that and anything else you might want.”
Sinnick already liked this Chinese fellow. He sounded flexible. But Sinnick felt in a strange mood as if he might be heading for a breakdown. It was the instant accents as if he had acquired something else to add to the sermo lapsus. He really needed to snap out of it quickly or the accent would become a permanent fixture.
Pushing another idea, a cure for bad accents, aside, he made another quick assessment of the youth. Spotting the drooping jeans that exposed the top of his underwear, Sinnick loosened his own trouser belt, grabbed the top of his Y-fronts, pulled them up an inch or two and grinned.
“Planning on making a bomb mate?" the youth asked.
“Nah,” Sinnick said, still struggling with his Y-fronts, his strange mood and his accent. “I leave that stuff to those foreign terrorists. We Brits must stick together, right?"
"Keep the country to ourselves, innit?”
Sinnick winced, moved his neck to disentangle a short, niggling hair stuck in his collar and suddenly felt better. He was cured. Back to his usual self again.
“Actually, my name is Doctor Albert Sinnick,” he said. “I’m from Krupton Health Centre. I’m looking for some help in producing a new treatment. I hate calling it a shampoo or a cream but, loosely, one could place it in one of those categories. It is to be a concoction - nay a formula - that will assist our less well-endowed patients to grow a thriving thatch of fresh, new hair worthy of the late Ken Dodd or Ozzy Osbourne. In the world of medicine, we call it follicular stimulation, the treatment itself being a so-called folligen. So as not to blind you with pharmacology I will be brief. I'm looking for help in finding a radical new treatment for alopecia – baldness to you – based on natural products that would be safe and effective to use by the ordinary man or woman in the street. We are looking for mass market appeal here so it needs to be cheap and not like all that expensive French stuff.”
“Effing amazing,” the Chinese youth said with obvious enthusiasm.
“Yes, it’s that important.” Sinnick replied. “Together we could be onto something of international importance but we must first admit that none of the existing stuff works except as…….” He paused to summon a suitably, poetic phrase. “Except as a splash of wall paint might conceal dirty hand marks.”
He took a breath. “We need to find something that at least has a smattering of scientifically proven efficacy. But it must be based on natural products and not some concoction of synthetic chemicals decided around a boardroom table belonging to some Parisian multimillionaire. Alternative and natural is now the mindset of the modern supermarket shopper. The French are missing a big trick here because they’ve lost the plot. But we can do it. Our time has come.”
If Sinnick had been in possession of his red, white and blue handkerchief he would now be waving it but today he had brought the white one. Surrender was not an option.
“I hate the French," the youth replied. “All cowards if you ask me. Cow-towing to unions all the time, sucking up to the Germans, stealing our fish, stopping our high-quality meat. Them and their Renault cars. I had one once. It felt like riding on a water bed. Girl-friend would throw up after a hundred yards. The bloody clutch kept going as well. I’ll never buy one again. I’ve got a Peugeot now. The French need some proper private enterprise, more entrepreneurship and less state subsidy and competition. We’re slowly getting rid of their wines. Let’s do it with their shampoo.”
Sinnick grinned and raised both thumbs. What he was hearing was like a full-blown English orchestral version of Elgar's Enigma Variations over-riding the tinny sound of a Frenchman trying to play a piece by Debussy on a banjo. Chinese hoodie or not, this was a man worthy of dual nationality. At last, someone with an entrepreneurial flair that had survived both Mao Tsai Tung and the inadequacies of the British state school system. He lowered his thumbs and held out his hand to the youth who grabbed it. “Call me Harry,” said the youth.
“Harry, eh? Are you a Chu by any chance?”
“Yeh, Harry Chu. How did you know?”
“Never mind,” says Sinnick. “Let’s work on it, shall we, Harry?”
“Yeh, why not? No problem. So, what are you going to call this new treatment of yours?”
Sinnick stood straight and proud to announce his trade name for the first time to the world at large. “Sinnick’s Hair Inducing Treatment” he said proudly. “What do you think, Harry Chu?”
And then Sinnick stood, waiting, smiling and nodding in anticipation, as the Chinese youth thought about it – for an unexpectedly long time. Too long. “What’s wrong?”
“Sinnick’s Hair Inducing Treatment? It's too long, mate. And everything needs an acronym these days. SHIT? That don’t sound right to me.”