Doc: 'What's Up?'

I hesitate just outside my GP's door, fighting the urge to do a runner. He is probably sick of the sight of me. He saw me more times this February than I think he did over the past two years (quite something, given that I am a chronic hypochondriac....) On one occasion I sat in his office for twenty five minutes - yes ! on the nhs !! - crying with shame because I had been reduced to a state where I was totally incapable of working even though there was nothing physically wrong with me. And I remember saying "I can't take up your time like this; there are people in your waiting room who are really ill" and he (rather sweetly) said "Ah, but the difference is that I know I can cure you, Katharine".

Which gave me considerable confidence at the time.

I adore my GP. He is highly intelligent, witty and attractive. Like my husband, he represents safety, security and sanity in a world which increasingly seems to be lacking all those things. When I went to see the doc in mid-January because I had woken my husband up by crying in my sleep, he immediately signed me off work. He also prescribed me anti-anxiety meds or anti-depressants or something. I am sounding vague because he knew perfectly well (because he is very familiar with my history) that I was never going to take them. I think I have put them in a drawer "for emergencies".

In the letter New Boss gave me the other day explaining why he wasn't going to take any action against Spiteful Manager (yes, I eventually got round to reading it) he concluded by saying that he hoped I could "move forward positively and with optimism for the future".

I'm going to make New Boss so happy ! All his hopes are being fulfilled.

I tell the doc about the headaches which still plague me on a daily basis, and he says "well, you've been through a lot, and the body and mind take time to heal". Probably true, I think. So then I start to tell him about all the changes I have made in my life as a result of having finally woken up and smelled the coffee.

I tell him that I am only working a 35 hour week. That I never look at my Blackberry between the hours of 6pm and 9am. That I have removed all the bundles of work papers from the flat which now feels like a home again. And that I try very hard never to discuss work matters with my husband.

I tell him that I have joined a local community choir and a theatre group. That I am waiting for the security clearance which will enable me to do more regular prison service. That I have a lunch break every single day, and that I regularly treat myself to a leisurely coffee while ringing or texting my friends.

I don't actually have time (because we are sticking to my allocated 5 nhs minutes) to tell him that over the weekend I went to three meetings of my support group, at one of which I gave the main talk; that on Saturday evening my husband and I went to Sadler's Wells to see the Scottish Ballet's amazing production of   "A Streetcar Named Desire", that I went to Mass on Sunday morning, and that on two separate nights I sat with different friends and ate exactly the same meal (chicken tikka, vegetable karahi, naan bread - mmmm). Oh - and I also did all the ironing and cleaned the bathroom. But on the way home I muse on all these miraculous things.

As I leave my GP's office, a thought occurs to him. "How are your colleagues treating you since you returned to work?"

I tell him that I  haven't really noticed.
And what is far FAR more important is that I honestly don't care.