The treatment paradox

In my shabby and stained white coat, I twirled my thick gelled fringe. He sat in a crisp, double breasted, pin striped suit, nursing a leather FiloFax and flipping through the glossy charts showing pension growth. I nodded confidently to cover my bewilderment at his sales pitch. Twenty minutes later he crushed my hand and left, with my signature on a monthly investment. Five years later I scratched my now shaven head in bewilderment at the evaluation quote of £67. I complained about mis-selling to the financial ombudsman and vowed never to be …