Opinion  

Mrs Flush, who currently stalks my bookable appointments like a very hot
bloodhound, has always insisted that hormones are responsible for
everything that ever goes wrong, even the rise of the superbug and the
inexplicable appeal of Jeremy Clarkson. I think she could be right.

The Teenagers with Attitude have taken themselves off to find more
sympathetic parents (other people's) so instead of outings to Places of
Interest, I sit with my owl, who glares at me crossly. His hormones are
up too and he thinks I'm his mother, raising grave questions in his mind
about what he must look for in a wife.

So here I am, in my professional, personal and physical prime (stop
laughing at the back), spending my precious holiday in front of a
psychosexual CME module, pursued by forwarded emails about choose and
book, and reflecting on my life as a metaphor.

Tossed on the hormonal tides of media opinion on my wealth,
inaccessibility and lack of caritas, moulted on by the DoH until I am in
danger of disappearing beneath the choking fluff of the extended hours
argument, soon there will be nothing left but dog hair and a very long
but completed PDP.

At least, says my sister, who has the misfortune to phone during this
period of luteal reflection, you do a worthwhile job. I feel cheered by
this. We had a wonderful patient satisfaction survey, without having
taken any sort of care at all to avoid giving Mr Spleen a pen that
worked.

Today, with my only company a moulting dog, a supercilious owl and a
failing corpus luteum, it's easy to recall my trainer commenting that
the only ways modern medicine really changes people's lives are
immunisation and ear washouts.

But if Mrs Flush feels there is some point to our unproductive attempts
to tackle her wildly fluctuating body temperature without, as she
happily puts it, feeding her horses' wee then there must be a purpose to
it all. I'll let you know when I find it.

Dr Selby is a GP from Suffolk. Email her at GPcolumnists@haymarket.com.