I'm going to need to watch my language over the next few weeks, because I have been crook at home for a few days and have thus watched every episode of the quite brilliant Inbetweeners, and have somehow managed to pick up some of the foul, potty-mouthed language that is used in their charming everyday conversation.
I imagine it was never too far from the surface. I'm sure my patients will love my new edgy take on the old, outdated pleasant-style of bedside manner. I don't see how anything at all can go wrong with that approach.
As far as I can tell, GPs simply allow you to be in their ethereal presence for ten minutes for a sum of $72.00 and diagnose you with an illness that may or may not be correct but seems to be a fit with the majority of annoying symptoms from one of the vast and disgusting diseases featured in their boring medical textbooks.
I already attribute psychological disorders to my ungrateful work colleagues, sometimes against their wishes but generally without their knowledge, so I'm pretty sure I can handle a little GP practice on the side.
I don't want to compare myself with a medical professional who has a medical degree and spent eight years at medical school and another 150 years in practice, but I'm going to. In my first year of psychology at uni I aced my differential diagnosis, so how hard can it be working with the rest of the body, from the brain stem down?
The only difference I can see between my rather successful career at diagnosis as an annoying know-it-all student psychologist wanna-be and my recent visit to an actual doctor is that I carried out a differential diagnosis, which meant I ruled out all other underlying conditions before I gave the patient their prognosis.
Apparently my doctor doesn't feel the need to go to such nutty extremes. After five visits to the doctor due to the massively annoying and inconvenient Pariah Cough, I could have hip cancer for all he knows.
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