I was in Bunnings recently and bumped into a nurse I’d known as a junior doctor.

He’d been a great source of support and advice in those difficult first months as a GP, and as we leaned on our trolleys and compared gardening equipment, he asked me if I was burning out.

Perhaps he could see it on my face. I’d seen five criers the previous day, two of whom had promised to bring in their depressed husbands, two of whom had crippling addictions and all of whom had begged to be bulk-billed.

I’d then spent 45 minutes with a long-term chest pain that I just couldn’t get to the bottom of.