Pausing in his prescription writing, the doctor gave me a shrewd, searching look.

‘I can still read you like a book. You’ve discovered that your husband’s having an affair, so you’re seeking revenge by bedding random boat meat and pretending you’re enjoying it. That’s what I actually diagnose – a chronic case of husband uncertainty syndrome.’

I was taken aback at the accuracy of his analysis. Who was this rude, impudent man, determined to annoy the tooth enamel off me? Gone were the days of me letting a man have the last word. Nope. From now on I was strapping on a bulletproof bra and shooting from the lip.

‘And what I diagnose is arrogant, up-himself doctor syndrome. But there’s no known cure for that, sadly . . . except the sack. I could report you for about a gazillion breaches of professional ethics right now. I won’t be doing that, however, because it will only get you dropped off at the next port with a healthy severance package, which is exactly what you want, am I right?’

The doctor gave a surprised laugh. ‘Touché,’ he said. ‘You’re the only patient who’s seen through my little ploy. But I am genuinely intrigued as to why a seasoned, intelligent woman would be interested in the gauche, shallow attentions of these adolescent oiks.’

As I cautiously pushed up to standing, I felt my feminist ire rise along with me. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Doc, but why is it okay for men to date younger women, but not vice versa?’

‘Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just enjoy them.’ He shrugged. ‘My last girlfriend was twenty-eight . . . But in truth, she bored the bejesus out of me. All those selfies and Instagrams of her food. Why?’

I limped towards the door. ‘Okay, thanks for your time. Although, should I thank you or maybe just get you struck off? Decisions, decisions, decisions!’

‘What you don’t know,’ the doctor post-scripted, the indifference in his eyes evaporating for a moment as he looked at me intently, ‘is that those “cubs” you seem so attracted to target women in the nightclub to play the “Whaling Game”.’

My hand was on the doorhandle, but I remained in the room, half turned towards him. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a vile, sexist game where young men compete to find, bed and “harpoon” the fattest female in the bar.’

I thought of my ‘Kardashian-esque’ sister, Emerald, and cringed on her behalf. But then again, why should I believe anything Captain Curmudgeon had to say? ‘You’re so cynical,’ I said, defensively. ‘I just hope it’s not contagious. Do you have the mental version of hand sanitiser in your office? Just to be on the safe side?’