Doctor Dolittle

Either Britain's medical schools are advocating a new type of bedside manner, or my doctor has just attempted to make a pass at me.

I have chronic eczema all over my body (it's disgusting), which refuses to go away, largely because I insist on training daily until I collapse in a sweaty heap, and this of course exacerbates the skin condition.

After battling the ridiculous NHS appointment system and fighting for my rightful position at the head of the queue in front of hypochondriac children and malingering geriatrics, I finally managed to secure an appointment this morning with what appeared to be a student doctor.

Having described the problem, I whipped off my top (yes, of course I am wearing a sexy Myla underwear set today, but the effect is ruined by the open sores and angry red lesions all over my chest). I expected him to recoil in horror and excuse himself for a minute so that he could vomit in the sink behind him. But instead:

"Hmmm," he purred, circling me and gently stroking my back. I felt shivers shoot down my spine. "How horrid for you," he continued, caressing me lightly and now whispering, "it must be so painful". His touch was very sensual, and continued for longer than was necessary.

(I swear I am not exaggerating this, by the way.) I studied him closely as he sat down in his seat, avoiding eye contact with me. Quite attractive, in a foppish English schoolboy way; one of those public service workers (eg teacher, police officer, etc) who, despite being fully adult, looks incredibly young to me, as I secretly still think I'm 21 and that public service workers are all much older than me.

The young doctor coughed nervously, and as he moved his hand to cover his mouth, I noticed that his palm was sweating.

"Do you... have a... boyfriend?" he asked, looking down at his keyboard.

"WHAT?!" I replied impatiently, failing to see the connection between my relationship status and a vile skin condition.

He reddened. "Well, just that when I had eczema on my hands, I felt too self-conscious to hold anyone's hand, and, um..." He coughed again, looking desperately at his computer screen.

Just then, the door burst open, and in walked Doctor Windbag (not his real name, obviously), my regular doctor, brandishing a camera. Oh yes, I had forgotten. Windbag is an expert in dermatology and has a bizarre academic interest in eczema. And now he wanted to photograph my chest for his latest lecture.

When I left the surgery 20 minutes later, I couldn't help thinking that I had just inadvertently played a part in a perverse, pornographic fantasy.

What has become of the NHS?!