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shoulder (and always my left shoulder), afforded him a sustained opportunity to peek through the gaps in my blouse.
    Once Craig had determined that the issue was not going to resolve itself merely as a result of a man using the computer properly , he would usually proceed to get out his laptop or log into the restricted layers of the system from my machine. After a further quarter of an hour of stinking up my office with BO and halitosis, he would declare the problem solved or else sigh a lot and blame issues further up the chain.
    That was what I had to look forward to at the end of this particular day: a little turd garnish on top of a gigantic shit sandwich served with a side of sick.
    My list ended early, due to another cancellation resultant of the HDU bottleneck. I longed to go home, but instead I had to wait in my office otherwise I’d still be locked out of the system come Monday morning, when I had a ton of admin to get through.
    At around ten past five I heard a knock and felt a shudder run through me. I glanced down at my blouse and wished I had a cardie. The problem was I never thought to bring in such a thing, as it was always cloyingly hot in the hospital, apart from in maternity theatre, where a cadre of menopausal midwives fiercely guarded a thermostat set at twenty degrees.
    I was contemplating my mistake in getting changed out of my theatre blues when I called out to Craig to enter.
    The door swung open slightly, and a head appeared around it, tentative to the point of apologetic.
    â€˜You’re not Craig.’
    â€˜No. I’m Peter.’

MIGHTIER THAN THE SCALPEL
    Bladebitch, as she became known, was the then anonymous author of the now infamous ‘Sexism in Surgery’ blog, which was already causing controversy among medical professionals before it went explosively – some might even say violently – viral about five years back.
    Parlabane first had it drawn to his attention by his then wife Sarah, whose poring over the postings was equally likely to be accompanied by snorts of indignant outrage or cackles of approval, as well as the occasional disbelieving gasp. These last were not to indicate incredulity at the content; rather more: ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe she went there.’
    She called herself Scalpelgirl, but it was the corrupted version that passed into public notice when scandal struck, meaning her chosen monicker became largely forgotten except among the blog’s original readership, and eventually even they had to refer to Bladebitch if they wanted people to know what they were talking about.
    Scalpelgirl was part agony aunt and part firebrand polemicist. She collated tales of misogyny that had been sent to her by female surgeons from across the UK, passing on their shocking details and responding with sometimes equally shocking invective.
    As the blog grew in popularity, the stories started to come flooding into the comments section by themselves, with Scalpelgirl’s overview articles sparking off areas of discussion or editorialising over a particular theme that had emerged.
    There were copious examples of comments that female doctors had to listen to, which Scalpelgirl categorised as ‘low-level harassment’, constantly reminding readers that ‘the very constancy of this background hum is both its greatest indictment and its greatest threat. The danger is that we’ll become so used to it that people will cease to notice how wrong it is.’
    Parlabane recalled Sarah delightedly sharing one particular column on this subject with her peers on social media. It was entitled ‘Are You Too Cute to Be a Surgeon?’, and began by citing a number of quotes from recently posted accounts, including the one that had given the article its title. Looking ‘too nice’, ‘too sexy’, ‘too homely’ and ‘too dainty’ were all apparently contra-indicated for a career in surgery, according to male