I HAD to go to the doctor's the other afternoon. I wasn't very happy about that. You see, surgery visits are quite an ordeal for me these days. It's rotten enough feeling ill, but having to give a false name to book a doctor's appointment tends to aggravate whatever condition I'm suffering from at the time.

The reason I have to give a false name to the receptionist is that my GP doesn't want to see me any more.

He claims I am a chronic hypochondriac and that I make his nerves bad.

I, on the other hand, believe I am genuinely unwell all the time - while conceding the point that I do make the poor man's nerves bad.

But how does the GP expect me to feel when I can go to bed one night feeling only slightly ill and then wake up the next morning with a full-blown case of Jessop's Contagion. (Coincidentally, I'm already up to the letter J in my medical dictionary of strange complaints.)

I suspect my doctor wants to strike me off his patients list. He keeps dropping subtle hints into our conversation, like why don't I relocate to Milton Keynes - or just go to hell.

When I pointed out to him that moving to Milton Keynes and going to hell are identical journeys, my GP got the hump and coolly informed me that he was born in Milton Keynes and that all his relatives still lived there quite happily - apart from one dodgy aunt who was currently domiciled in Holloway until well into the Millennium.

Anyway, I was back at the surgery the other day convinced that I had come down with Juniper's Cowpox, a rare condition which is similar to chickenpox but without the rash.

I was a little early for my appointment so I eased myself into a chair in the waiting room and sorted through the reading material on offer on the small table next to me. The choice was limited to a three-year-old edition of Drapers Record and a 1993 seed catalogue. I declined to peruse either publication as I have no interest in drapery and the 1993 seeds must have germinated by now.

So I initiated a conversation with the only other person in the waiting room, a young man who was flipping through the pages of a dog-eared Woman's Own.

It turned out that the young man and I had two or three things in common.

Not only did we both live in the same street but we also resided at the same house and, what's more, we shared the same surname.

"Son?" I asked incredulously. "Is it really you? How come I didn't recognise you?"

"Because," the young man replied, "you're always out of the house when I'm in and vice versa. But here's a peculiar thing, dad. How come this time I didn't recognise you?"

"There's a simple answer to that, son. It's because I'm wearing a false ginger beard and moustache and a trilby hat pulled down over my eyes."

My son scratched his head with the rolled-up Woman's Own and thought carefully for a moment. "So why are you in disguise, dad?"

I glanced furtively around the waiting room. "It's because I don't want them to know who I really am," I whispered.

"I have to wear camouflage because the doctor left strict instructions with his receptionist that I wasn't to be admitted to the surgery for the next six months.

"And as you can see," I went on, "the receptionist is one big lady and I don't want to end up in a fist fight with her."

My son and I sneaked surreptitious looks at Conan the Receptionist as she went manfully about her business, answering the phone and receiving new patients. My son nudged me. "Want to read Woman's Own while you're waiting, dad?"

"No thanks, son. I'm hanging on for the 1992 Christmas edition of Titbits. It should be delivered here any day now."

Something was niggling at me but I couldn't for the life of me think what it was. And then I remembered my parental responsibilities.

"My goodness, son!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing at the doctor's? Are you ill?"

"I think I've got the flu, dad. I'm all hot and shivery."

"I feel the same, son. But I happen to have Juniper's Cowpox."

My lad gave me the once-over. "But I can't see any spots on you, dad."

"That's because with Juniper's you don't get the rash, son." By now the waiting room was filling up fast with poorly people.

Suddenly, the deep, booming voice of Conan the Receptionist cut through the general hubbub. "Mr Fitzgerald, please! You're next to see the doctor!"

Conan waited a split second before uttering a huge sigh of displeasure when no one stood up.

"Mr Fitzgerald, reveal yourself this instant or you shall have to await your turn until after the ante-natal clinic!"

The poorly people looked at each other in an attempt to identify the elusive Mr Fitzgerald.

"Oh, lumme!" I exclaimed, leaping up from my chair. "Mr Fitzgerald is me!"

My son looked bewildered. "Then why isn't my name Fitzgerald, too?"

"That's the false name I used to get an appointment," I said. "But don't worry about it, son. I'll continue this story when I come out from seeing the doctor.

"Alternatively, you can read all about it in next Saturday's BEN."

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.