ABSTRACT
‘Like many younger sons from the dawn of time, I sought my fortune far from home,'said Dr Malcolm Phillips, peeling off his soft faun gloves in a materialistic striptease. That my elder brother was a wastrel engaged in the serious business of frittering away [index finger, right hand] the family pile [second finger, right hand] mattered not in the land of primogeniture [ring and little fingers right hand, first and second fingers, left hand]. I swallowed my pride, swore my Hippocratic oath and sallied forth into the unknown. And [gloves lain neatly next to the microphone] here I am.' With modesty appropriate to his exalted position - raised chin and eyebrows, drooping mouth - he surveyed the journalistic cubs and their decrepit colleagues, all gathered for the announcement of his appointment to a prestigious position on the medical board. Only one reporter knew the truth about his 'pile' and he was scudding from his own sharks.
