It's not that I don't like writers. Writers are great. Conventions are also great, particularly when there are free biscuits. However, having to talk about myself is not great. I fear I shall be rubbish and they will howl and jeer. It will be like Shakespeare at the Globe back in the 16th century, with everyone throwing rotten cabbages and losing their heads.
You see, I have no secrets, insights or wisdoms to reveal. These columns have over years detailed my grand multiparity, my habit of leaping from the church organ to resuscitate fading patients, my previous life as a go-go dancer, the pain I experience when my owl sits on my head and even my extraordinary good luck in being struck by lightning and living to tell the tale. And yet I have agreed to tell all, whatever all may be.
Clearly I am a pushover. This explains why Mrs Demanding is with me for half an hour at the end of every Wednesday-morning surgery, and Mrs Colon thinks that I am the right person to consult about her vast redundant bowel loops. It explains why Miss Karmic thought I would induce her baby three weeks early so it would be a Pisces, and Mr Weary will see only me when he has another attack of can't-get-out-of-beditis and wants a sick note. All of these people have at some point told me I am the best doctor ever. But the thing is, they said it to you too, but you took no notice. I thought they meant it.
According to the Sunday Times what I need is a gay best friend. A GBF is nice to you without wanting you to speak at a writers' convention.
Sadly, despite secretly hoping to recruit Mr Gorgeous to be my GBF I realise that ethically I can't do so, partly because he is a patient but mainly because he keeps wanting to show me his scrotum, and so I am speaking at the Society of Medical Writers' convention, 12 April in Bury St Edmunds. I promised I'd mention it (they said I was wonderful).
Dr Selby is a GP from Suffolk. Email her at GPcolumnists@haymarket.com