Everybody likes the local doctor.

He is amiable, sympathetic, and doesn’t start off each consultation with the standard three questions they teach you at medical school. (Do you drink/do you smoke/do you do anything else at all in your life that might be remotely enjoyable).

He has also been very mature and sympathetic about my arse problem, although I’m sure he has a bit of a laugh about it down at the rugby club with his mates, which is fair enough and a perk of the job. I’m sure he also regrets his unwitting choice of words when I first went to see him about that years ago – viz, ‘let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this’.

Anyway, the problem is that I’ve started getting horrible, unbearable, nausea-inducing headaches. Last week I almost collapsed, in a dramatic fashion, which got me lots of sympathy but frankly is the sort of thing that I would Rather Not Happen.

I was concerned that I may have caught a brain tumour.

I go to the doctor’s, and tell him the symptoms.

“God, yes – me too,” he replies. “Bloody unpleasant, isn’t it?”

I’m a bit taken aback by this, but he explains that some special pills usually make it go away. He then asks me lots of questions, takes my blood pressure and examines me with his tricorder, although I am a bit disappointed that I he doesn’t ask me to wear a big metal helmet with wires and stuff on it in order to check my brainwaves.

The upshot is that I don’t have a brain tunour, but am getting migraines, possibly triggered by either food or sex.

I had no idea such a condition existed.

He advises me to keep a diary of everything I eat before an occurrence. “Oh – and I’d try shagging at least twice a day.”

I leave the surgery, a spring in my step.