‘He’s, like, massive in the world of high-end antiquities.’

Of course he is. That’s probably why he doesn’t talk much at the hospital. Who could blame him? If I was massive in the world of high-end antiquities I’d probably save my energy for hobnobbing with rare-antiquity-collecting billionaires, rather than wasting my breath on hopeless junior doctors or arguments with senior colleagues who are out to derail my career anyway.

‘And he races yachts.’

‘Does he?’ I’m surprised by this. He doesn’t look like he’d be out tugging ropes on the high seas, but I guess racing yachts is an expensive hobby for expensive people, and I’m starting to see the whole picture of Dr Jack Prince more clearly. He’s starting to look very, well, expensive.

‘He must think he’s absolutely fantastic,’ Estelle says with a yawn. ‘I remember guys like him from the club. They were always so impressed with themselves.’

I think about Mr Wilde, lying on the ward waiting for his operation, and the only surgeon who’s bothered to give him the time of day. I remember Mr Wilde snapping at Dr Prince for taking so long to see him and Dr Prince apologising for being late. I remember the other surgeons at the meeting who were ready to write off Mr Wilde after looking at a single brain scan and Dr Prince standing his ground, risking his reputation for some grumpy old farmer from west of the middle of nowhere.

It isn’t until we pay the bill and walk home that I start to understand. The reason why I like Dr Prince isn’t because he’s a talented surgeon or is a big deal in high-end antiquities or races expensive yachts. Sure, those things make him different and exciting and they sound glamorous, but money and glamour don’t mean anything to someone like Mr Wilde. In the incredibly complex world of neurosurgery, Dr Prince has done something incredibly simple. He’s been kind.

I walk slowly down North Avenue, thinking. The one thing I know for sure as a junior doctor is that I don’t know much. I’m reminded of this every morning when I walk into the hospital. Forever will come and go, and I still won’t know enough. In two years I’ll be a junior registrar, then a senior registrar, then a fellow, then a junior consultant, then a senior consultant. Knowledge will elude me for a lifetime, but I think I am learning my most significant lesson on that short walk home from the pub, in my first few months of training, at a time when I know the very least.