I was expecting x rays. The weekly orthopaedic teaching was a godsend—a legitimate excuse to vanish before being lumbered with Friday afternoon’s ward duties. I’d happily suffer the ritual humiliation of a pinstriped orthopod shouting plummy obscenities if it meant an early start to a long weekend.
But this lunchtime lecture was different. Instead of a dimly lit room with fractures projected across the walls, the consultant was sitting on a desk, double-breasted blazer slung across a stool, sipping a Diet Coke under his half rimmed glasses. Today, I would learn about my future.
Through increasingly animated gestures with a rolled up copy of the Telegraph, I learnt how I Can’t Have It All. I discovered that pretty soon I’d want kids and a family, and I’d have to make some Tough Decisions, especially with my declining fertility (I’m 23. And male). It turns out that whatever my dreams of