A family of four entered and positioned themselves strategically in my consultation room. The middle-aged parents took the two seats in front of me, the teenage daughter plonked herself on the examination bed, and the son chose to stand. This was swift. Often, when there are two chairs and more people, the first five minutes are spent deciding who is going to sit where, and most often, one chair remains vacant because people opt to stand out of courtesy. Every culture is different, and every family has a distinct dynamic.

“He can’t smell anything,” the wife started off after pleasantries were exchanged, and then looked at her husband for him to continue. “My head hurts like hell,” he said clasping it with both his palms. He sat there like a stack of circular Russian dolls. His head was perfectly round. His torso was also thoroughly spherical, albeit a voluminously larger version of his head. And the tumour inside his head was the size and shape of a cricket ball, a glowing third eye. It stood there like a road roller, compacting the nerves responsible for smell into the base of the skull.