Golden endless sunshine of New South Wales. Suburban frivolity and a certain sexiness.
Here comes the hunk-hero, the main event, fresh from modelling agency into daytime TV. Surfer-type. Athletic, clean, not entirely empty-headed. Hair longish, blonde-streaked, dried and honeyed by a lifetime under sun. Teeth impossibly white and uniform, as though tipex'd. Could be a motor mechanic.
Up from the beach and into the local café, an airy wood-panelled building, old and honourable, where boards and salty apparatus are stacked and where hang the plaques of past Iron Men, their tough names scribed in gold.
His name is Doctor Jeff. He's there to appeal to the female contingent of the TV audience, sunplashed and bright of tooth, efficient but roguish, white coat and stethoscope.
Here for an examination. The girls who works serving drinks behind the counter succumbs to his bedside manner, quiet, courtly, wicked gleam in eye. She's a snub-nosed, sturdily built brunette, large-bosom'd, and she begins to unbutton her loose shirt.
She reclines easily, her body slightly tensed, along the length of the floor, while the doctor, grinning warmly, stoops over her.
Ah, a game of doctors and nurses. Doctor Jeff listens, slightly excited, to the thump of her heart. He sounds out her chest with discreet but precise taps between the rising swell of her breasts. Her mouth opens to receive his thermometer, which after a few minutes Dr. Jeff retrieves and examines closely, always maintaining his charming and comforting smile.
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