‘It’d be asbestos or something,’ I say, trying not to breathe too deeply. Medical admin has taken enough from us; I don’t want their only gift to me to be mesothelioma.

Medical administration is in a tiny little office deep in the bowels of the old hospital, attached to the new hospital by a long, dimly lit corridor, so nondescript that you could easily forget it exists, except when there’s a mistake with your pay—then you realise that this shitty little office in the basement of the old hospital is actually the controlling force behind everything: who gets hired, who gets fired, and who gets paid. The hospital capitalises on the fact that doctors have way too much other shit to worry about to pay too much attention to discrepancies on our timesheets. Doctors are too busy trying to survive, and ensure their patients survive too, to sit down and properly analyse the world’s most convoluted payslip. This is perfect for medical admin; it means that most people won’t bother trying to fight for the overtime owed.

Most of the stories that go around about administration aren’t good. The brave junior doctors who speak out and demand they’re paid for the overtime hours they work are treated like political dissidents. There are hair-raising tales of junior doctors who’ve dared to raise an issue about a disparity in hours or pay being taken in for private one-on-ones with the head of training, where it’s suggested they have mental health issues and are ‘harassing’ admin by daring to question them. If you’re marked out as a dissident, it’s only a matter of time before you’re shipped off to the proverbial hospital gulag, never to see the light of day of a specialist training program or a decent reference.

‘Hi, Nicole,’ Max says as we walk into the office. ‘I love your shoes.’

Nicole’s wearing extremely high leopard-print heels that make my ankles scream just from proximity. Her skirt is too short and her top too revealing, her hair too shiny and her lips too plump. Her dress hugs her curves so perfectly I almost have to avert my eyes. She is a Botticelli, a Victoria’s Secret angel. I am in awe. She looks amazing.

Even Max, who is revolted by vaginas, can’t stop staring. Nicole smiles, and her hair moves, a shimmering chestnut rug of Pantene and regular keratin treatments.

I suddenly feel self-conscious. My scrubs are so baggy the crotch hangs almost to my knees, making me look like a cross between a gangster from an early nineties MTV music video and an obese man.

‘Hi, guys! I had a really fun time at drinks the other night.’