"You too sensitive," Dr Wong tells me, "don't take things so bloody personally." He pronounces bloody as "bwuddy", and tacks on, "you such a perfectionist. Why you have to be so bwuddy perfect all the time?"
In the anonymity of Murrumbeena, the suburban sprawl that spreads out of Melbourne like an oil leak, he places his needles with jaunty precision. When he's done, he pats me on the leg and says soothingly, with great care, "you rest now". And I breathe in the aromas of moksha sticks, wintergreen and the smoky whisps of previous treatments. When my mind settles, I suddenly drop into deep rest, and if I'm lucky, a far away sleep before he bounces in and says, "You can go back to work now. See you next time."
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