If I don't have my head buried in the fridge then you can usually find me at the doctors. 

I’m starting to believe that perhaps I’m a bit of a hypochondriac. I blame Google. Headache? It’s a brain tumour. 

Tight chest? That’ll be a heart attack. 

Googling symptoms even led to a self-diagnosis of testicular torsion. 

Sitting in the surgery, eagerly awaiting my appointment due to the fact that I had contracted guinea worm disease, I couldn’t help but listen in to a few conversations. 

I wasn’t being nosey or rude – just displaying an unhealthy interest in the lives of complete strangers. 

Most of the patients were, let’s say, of the grandparent variety. 

Seated behind me were a lovely couple chatting away about what must have been their great-granddaughter. 

“Aye, she was walking the other day, our Sue said,” the old lady giggled. 

“She’s coming on,” her husband answered. It was a fairly sweet conversation. 

Naturally, I became bored so I turned my head to the left, hoping that my gossip radar would pick something up that was a little more juicy. 

On my immediate left sat another elderly lady who, almost instantaneously, took to staring at me. 

Slightly perturbed that any avoidance of eye contact couldn’t break her icy stare, I decided to fake a toilet break. 

You know what I mean – you go to the toilet so that when you return it doesn’t look as strange if you sit in another seat? 

I parked my derriere in a corner this time. 

This gave me a good view of the entire room. I could also play ‘guess the ailment’ as I watched the newbie patients pile in. 

I soon regretted it. 

“Oh, this weather, Vera,” a lady started. 

“I know, Edna. It wants to make up it’s mind what it’s doing,” Vera replied. 

My heart sank. Any person, and I include myself in this, who is struggling to begin and maintain a conversation will turn to the weather as a safe and inoffensive starter. 

It’s a sad fact of life and it irritates the hell out of me. 

“Wasn’t it nice last week, lass. What happened?” Edna went on. 

I was hoping that Vera wouldn’t respond but she did: “I know! Now it’s like winter! I tell you, ey!” 

This went on for a few minutes more until the surgery door swung open. 

“Here’s our Betty!” screeched Edna.

“Hiya!” Betty shouted over in an unnecessarily loud manner. 

Betty then waddled over and I had to listen to it all again: “Here, what’s garn on with this weather?” 

I was tempted to ‘go to the loo’ once again but all the seats were taken and my current affliction would no doubt hinder me in any altercation with the guy propped up on crutches. 

“Shelley?” the doctor saved me just in time. 

I tried to convince the therapist that Betty, Edna and Vera were the real reason my GP had me sectioned. 

He just tried to change the subject – by asking about the weather.