And without sounding like a depressed diva, I propound that human bodies are a lot like houses. You know what I mean – when you start renovating a house and you pull a wall down, or remove a layer of flooring, you are besieged with a plethora of new problems. The female physique, with so many moving parts, is just the same. And of course, every new hiccup requires a trip to yet another health professional in yet another large building, in yet another far-flung suburb.

It is the downhill slide, literally. So it started last week with an impending and long overdue post-op check-up with the surgeon who cheekily took my gall bladder in April. But of course, his chirpy receptionist tells me that he requires another referral as the last one was only for three months.

So off I schlep to the GP who, of course, is away – again – and I see a locum. He is not satisfied with just writing a sentence of medical mumbo jumbo on an official slip of paper for me. He wants to have a good look over my chassis, particularly the old wound site. As he does this, he discovers not only a small ventral hernia – don’t ask – but also a ‘‘suspicious’’-looking spot on my chest.

Enter my dermatology specialist, on the opposite side of the city. And that is where I have been today. Nothing quite like lying almost naked on a surgical bed with a remarkably good-looking doctor poring over every inch – and my god, I have a lot of inches – of my exposed flesh with a light attached to his head and a pair of magnifying glasses perched on his nose. Great for the self-esteem, especially when said doctor was often chatting to you in the foyer of the senior school at speech nights a few years ago. Oh embarrassment, thou art a woman!