Wan Hung Loo

The Hol Ches Mingin Hospital disclaimed responsibility at once. 
Indeed Matron seemed almost to gloat about the poor woman’s predicament. 
‘Last week, she come in first:
stares and whistles
from young men.
Thought she model,
like Jordan. 
They size of Jordan. 
The country!
She back now:
as Wan Hung Loo. 
Know what I mean?’
Of course I didn’t and demanded she start from the beginning.
‘She entered hospital with body pains.  In my country we use acupuncture to treat.  She a bit anxious when needle stuck into her right breast, but say nothing.  Is hiss sound but soon pain go and she go too.
She back in, two more days, like this!!’
Matron cupped one hand beneath her own breast and the other down at her waist. 
‘She not able walk up right!’
She mocked the imagined gait, clutching her own pendulous left breast with both hands.
‘Jelly bags, you say,
inside, make them bigger! 
Needle made hole and jelly come out. 
We fix: saline and sealant. 
Back to like Jordan now!
She not pay again. 
But no compo. 
Her problem.  Not us.’

I suppose vanity has its own vengeance.

Still, all we have to worry about is the hospital superbug!

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