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before?’
    â€˜The odd twinge.’
    And so on through all the usual questions about pain down the legs, performance of the waterworks and bowels, numbness and tingling, until it came to time to examine him. As he stripped off his shirt (slowly), then stood up with his back to me, I was able to appreciate that he was a muscular man.
    It was a painful examination both for him and, indeed, for me when he overbalanced and trod heavily on my corns. At its end, I didn’t really have much idea what was wrong with him, although I thought it unlikely to be a slipped disc. In my best voice I pronounced, ‘I think you may have strained your sacroiliac joints.’
    He looked alarmed. ‘Is that bad?’
    I smiled reassuringly; how to smile reassuringly is the first and most useful thing they teach you at medical school. ‘Not at all. I’ll arrange for you to have some physiotherapy at Mayday. In the meantime, some painkillers will help.’
    â€˜I’ve tried paracetamol. That didn’t touch it.’
    Lesson number two was the ever-so-slightly condescending tone. ‘I think you’ll find these a little bit stronger,’ I said as I wrote his prescription and handed it to him. ‘And you need to rest it. Ideally, you should be sleeping on a firm mattress and taking time off work.’
    He shook his head firmly. ‘No. I’ve got to keep working, I’m self-employed. The bills don’t pay themselves, you know.’
    Words of wisdom from my father came back to me. Never argue with the buggers. You won’t win and, if you do, they’ll never forgive you.
    I shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, Mr Hocking.’

SIX
    A t last, my torment ended and I could escape to the restroom for some coffee and a biscuit. I felt as if I had been awake solidly for thirty-six hours.
    Jack, of course, spotted it immediately. Jack Thorpe was a good doctor but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a kind man; expose your neck to Jack and it was odds on you’d find teeth marks in it the next time you looked in the mirror.
    â€˜Good God, man. You look worse than me, and I was the one on call last night.’
    â€˜I probably feel worse than you, too.’
    â€˜Couldn’t you sleep?’ This question was immediately followed by the abrupt appearance of a leer on his round, rather bulging features. ‘Oh, I get it. You and that bit of totty of yours. What’s her name? Chris? Tina?’
    â€˜Max. And, no—’
    â€˜That’s it. Max. Had a good night, did you?’ He shot a glance over at Brian, the third partner in the practice, to see if he were enjoying the sport, but Brian wasn’t listening; I think that Brian had long ago decided that since listening was a part of the job, he wasn’t about to start doing it in his spare time. He was biting into a bourbon biscuit, crumbs falling on a slightly stained dark-green tie.
    I said, ‘It wasn’t that . . .’
    Which, of course, only made matters worse.
    â€˜Oh! Turn you down, did she? Been lying alone in bed with an ache in the groin and a feeling of inferiority?’
    Jane, our nurse, came in and I turned to her. ‘Help me, Jane.’
    Jane was tall and self-possessed and beautiful, just as a nurse should be. If you’re going to have to bend over with your trousers at half-mast while a nurse sticks a hypodermic needle in your rear end, it’s important that she looks like Jane.
    â€˜What is it?’ she asked.
    In a fit of sex equality to keep in with the prevailing social trends, we had agreed that she might be allowed to share our coffee breaks; we were quite enlightened for those dim, distant days. She poured some coffee and sat down, eschewing the plate of biscuits that Brian offered her.
    â€˜Jack’s being unpleasant.’
    Having sipped the coffee, made a face and put the cup and saucer down, she said, ‘Really? I can’t believe