I blame the city.
Ever since her unexpected return to the dark, dingy streets of the city, she has turned into a different person. Even in the fluorescent-lit halls of the hospital, the redoubtable Shalom is near unrecognizable - so unlike her normal jovial self that I find it almost impossible to believe it's the same girl I once knew.
I blame it on the polluted air. Or else there's something nasty in the potable water. Perhaps the ale?
Good Gods, you look ghastly too!
Not only has Shalom shed all her hilarious Nyonya antics, her proto-feminist stands and her snappy one-liners, she has morphed into the perfect medical physician with red-rimmed sleepless eyes and accompanying eyebags, riotous curls trimmed back in a neat black hairband ( boring! ), and finally plain pencil skirts and flat black espadrilles.
And no make-up.
And all she talks about is catching up on medical journals, writing endless theorems and seeing patients 24/7.
Paul : Hey, have time for a movie and dinner after work?
Sha-Clone : No. Must go to work. Work. Work.
Paul : Are you alright?
Sha-Clone : Work. Work. W-work...
Paul : Ugh, Sha-Clone, I think that screw in your neck just came loose.
While I could sing a rhyme all about the poor thing, poor thing, I'm a lil more worried about the fact that she might have been adult-napped and replaced with a perfect lil exam doppelganger. I wonder if the real gal has been slashed, chopped up and turned into delectable meat pies at Mrs Lovett's!
God, I bet poor Shalom was a cruel victim of a vicious scientific experiment to turn all doctors into dry, boring old clones to troop endlessly through the hospital wards clerking patients 24/7! From Shameless Shalom to What-a-Shame Sha-Clone. Even her supervisor has noted her significant metamorphosis ( far too late! ) and called for immediate attention.
In case she hasn't been diced and stuffed into shepherd's pie, I think she's probably been possessed by a demon. So we seriously need an exorcism of sorts. Some holy water. A crucifix. A sanctified medical textbook. Maybe a miniskirt to replace those damned knee-lengths.
And some M.A.C. products.
And if you haven't guessed by the painful laments of poor thing, I've already seen the dreadful Mrs Lovett in action with her handy cleaver at her pie shop on Fleet Street. Lean gents with a stubble and a penchant for bloodshed, make your way upstairs to the demon barber Sweeney Todd's if you're looking for a deadly close shave.