If you're sick don't phone docs' surgery for sympathy

Your nose is running, your eyes are streaming and your stomach churning. As for your head, well, that feels like the mosh pit at a Motörhead gig. Front and centre, in full view of Lemmy's mole.

What you need is some TLC, a week in bed and, most importantly, antibiotics. So you reach for the phone and call the doctors' surgery.

These are the good people of society. They'll look after you. They'll make you feel better.

"Yes?" barks the voice on the other end of the line.

"Oh hello, I'd like to see the doctor please."

Snort of derision. "There are no appointments until a week next Friday."

"Goodness me. I'm really not feeling too well."

"Well, what's wrong with you? Is it an emergency?"

"Hmm, I'd rather speak to the doctor but I think it's a virus."

"11am tomorrow."

Line goes dead. You're left staring at the phone in disbelief. Somehow feeling even worse than you did before.

Moody receptionists, eh? A conundrum of the working world, like a child-hating clown or a Beatties counter girl who wears a normal amount of make-up.

What is wrong with these women? Why are they so mean?

The person you want picking up the phone at the GP practice is some cuddly and comforting Ma Larkin-type character. Someone who'll go "there, there dear" and reassure you that the rash on your back probably isn't leprosy but she'll book you in quick-sharpish, just in case. What we get are spiky, sarky, I'm-oh-so-busy types akin to Annie Wilkes. Only not as nice.

But this is not a GP surgery-specific rant. If only rude receptionists were confined to one place, at least then we'd know where they were at all times and could prepare/avoid, like that massive spider who lives on the hinge of our garage door or the earwig under the loo brush.

School secretaries are also up there in the Anne Robinson rudeness stakes, along with those who work at taxi firms, solicitors and dentists. There also used to be a secretary who worked at one of the Star's branch offices who scared the bejesus out of me with her Miss Trunchbull conduct. As much as I'd like to name names here, my editor has threatened me with a career-long shift at magistrates' court so best keep schtum.

And if you think they're bad on the phone, they're often even worse in person. They look at you with contempt, there's not a smile in sight and they address you as though you're the poo on their shoe.

Yup, without a doubt, bolshy, impatient and downright rude receptionists really are the worst of the worst.

Not like us journalists. You never get any trouble with us.

One last thing

Ok, enough already. I'm not exactly her biggest fan but this Kim Kardashian-bashing has got to stop.

The woman is not fat. The woman is pregnant. And deserves to be left alone and not endure nine months of ridicule, judgement and abuse alongside morning sickness and swollen ankles.

The net exploded t'other day when KK dared to wear a pair of high heels. Oh the shame. My fave comments were "They look like pigs' trotters. She's a laughing stock." and "I feel so sorry for this stupid stupid woman".

Am I missing something here? Has the let's-irrationally-hate-a-pregnant-TV-star memo passed me by? Whatever's going on, it's one of the most unsavoury fads we've had for a while.

Read Elizabeth Joyce first in your Weekend Shropshire Star