But I've been buoyed by the news that I'm not alone in my suffering. Having attempted to discuss retinopathy with a patient who had even less voice than I did this morning (we ended up whispering in each other's ears), and then been faced with a lady who sneezed on the lens of my camera, I returned to the office at lunchtime to discover that my boss and his wife have had exactly the same affliction over Christmas. I sound like I'm doing a permanent impression of them both. Which is the kind of mocking behaviour that could get me fired.
But talking of people with dodgy careers (and cold noses), I've found a fantastic new way to keep in touch with my old school mates. Never mind Friends Reunited and Facebook, I just read The Daily Mail...
That's Trevor, who was my best (and some would say only) friend when I was 16. He's now guarding snowmen in Lancashire for a living.
But not all my old chums have moved so far from Essex. Allan, a good friend with whom I played in a band for two years, and who spent most of his life in a black leather jacket, inviting me to parties round at his place, has now been selected as a Labour Party candidate for the upcoming general election. It's odd how people's lives turn out. I used to sit next to him in English lessons and wonder what possible career would suit someone with such bad handwriting. And then you see him in photos like this...
... and suddenly it all makes sense.
Obviously both Trev & Al are now media darlings, but if you want to know who was responsible for getting their names into print for the very first time, then look no further than the credits of this twenty-year-old classic of English literature. I know star quality when I see it.
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