It must be said that I do have a tendency toward over-reaction when it comes to my health. I was once banned by my husband from watching any medical stories on TV because by the end of the show I was always convinced I was DYING from the featured illness. I had ALL THE SYMPTOMS people.

Well it appears I have now ended up in a hypochondriac’s version of heaven.

Four days after Simon died I already had a scheduled appointment at the doctors (I can’t even remember what for now). I walked in, promptly burst into tears, and within minutes had prescriptions, a referral to a counsellor and fortnightly appointments with the doctor.

This means, for two months I have spent one hour a fortnight with a counsellor talking for an HOUR about MYSELF. Then on the alternate fortnight I got to visit my lovely doctor to check in.

I’m working my way through every health problem imaginable. Initially I confidently told her I had experienced instantaneous menopause. I had hot flushes and my never-late periods had disappeared. “That’s it, it is all over, clearly I’m done”. My doctor muttered about “stress disrupting cycles” which I chose not to believe.

Next visit I thought I had cancer because the periods had returned with such vengeance. “Stress disrupts cycles” may have been mentioned again.

Last visit I had self-diagnosed melanoma, but after half an hour checking every single mole on my body (and there are a few), doctor declared none were abnormal.

However, the breast check I insisted on did uncover two lumps – all right they are matching lumps one on each breast and they line up with where the underwire of a particularly ill-fitting bra sits – but I’m off to have a mammogram.

I’m also getting a thyroid check while I’m at it because a friend suggested it looked enlarged. I may just have a fat neck, but while I’m getting this much medical attention let’s cover everything.

Now if you excuse me I’ve got to dash to Google the latest illness of the week just so I’m prepared for the next appointment.