Tomorrow, or at any rate later today, I will embark upon a groundbreaking mission. For the first time in my relatively short life, I will actually be proactive about my presence, wholehearted about my health and downright determined to delay my death. Yes, I will visit a doctor and make the damn appointment myself without getting a member of my family to do it for me. I'm 18, you see. Us adults do that sort of thing. If you don't know me, you'll mock me - if you do know me, you'll still mock me because it's the sort of thing my friends like to do, but you'll also be just that bit proud that Ollie can, for once, do something himself.

Yet the road to this medical Mecca is paved with perilous problems. Firstly, in order to accomplish my given task of making an appointment, I need to alter my registration so that I am officially registered at the local clinic in my Dad's village. Now, I am already registered in both Taunton and Oxford, so this will bring the number of doctors responsible for my general wellbeing to three. I am quite pleased by this scenario - whereas most stay-at-home, relatively stationary people have just one doctor to make potentially life-or-death decisions (such as "shall I tickle him with the liquid nitrogen brush?"), I have three individuals each eager to ensure I elude Accident & Emergency.

However, in order to complete the registration process, I do of course have to navigate the treacherous passage known to the young, naive and unwary as 'Reception', and to the rest of us as quite simply a living hell. I have absolutely no doubt that upon being told yes, I would like a third doctor to add to my list of nice people, the lady (for it is invariably so) behind the counter will look at me as though I have said, 'Excuse me, do you have anything for smallpox?' It is going to take a good ten to twenty minutes to convince her that yes, I need a doctor here too - the explanation will involve my life history, which I've only previously recounted to a drunk scouser at university who could remember precious little of it the next day, and so much hot air is likely to emanate from her mouth that by the end of the conversation I will require hospitalisation for facial burns. I am not looking forward to it.

Even if I convince the receptionist that I am a bona fide patient rather than one of those thieving immigrants who believe they have a right to basic healthcare, I am still faced with the question of what precisely I tell the doctor. You see, the original complaint was, and remains, an ingrowing toenail (a complaint I don't expect to suffer again, as the removal of this one will account for the big toe on either foot, the only trouble spot so far). But when faced with a trip to the doctor, my body invariably conjures up a whole armada of niggles, rashes, lumps and sores for me to consider reporting. The poor doctor, as a brand new addition to my medical squad, will immediately find himself swamped:
'Yes doc, it's the toe, but if you've got a moment there's this thing here... yeah, don't do that to it... and then there's this, whoops! Let me wipe that off your foot... and then if I just show here (*zipping noise*)...' etc etc etc.

I would have a general check-up, but I'm so afraid that the results would give me enough worries to induce a nervous breakdown that I'd rather keep my mental health (what's left of it) at the expense of the physical side of things. In fact, a visit to the doctor is often far more emotionally and psychologically testing for me than the original ailment - grinding through my ingrown toenail with my molars before dripping candle wax over the nail bed to prevent future growth would probably be a slightly less painful experience. Maybe I'll just stay at home and suffer... but I really need a haircut as well... and don't get me started on that... I'm seriously contemplating having a blue streak died into it. Suggestions?