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As a doctor, you learn not to be squeamish. Familiarity means that when you slide the blade along the skin, you know exactly what’s going to happen. Measured steady movements of the hands allow precise layers of skin, fat, muscle, to be divided and separated. Lift and separate, the mantra of the cosmetic surgeon.

When I first started working in the morgue, it took me a long time to get over the “ick” factor. To treat the people on the table as though they were slabs of meat, puzzles to solve, rubiks cubes to take apart and see how they worked. Not what their maker had intended, obviously. But the easiest way for me to solve the puzzle of why they stopped working in the first place.

But it’s a rare calling these days. There’s more money to be made in GP visits, or chin care and skin care, boob lifts and implants. No one wants to get over the “ick” factor. Do people need to be desensitised to the gore? The innards we never see? Yes, I think they do. So I press send and upload one more autopsy to the internet.

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