When is a doctor not a doctor?

For a few months now, I have been working approximately 2 miles from where I live. On the whole, this is fantastic arrangement. The commute is a dream. I get up late, go home for lunch and am back sipping tea just minutes after the close of evening surgery. Because I meet so many local residents, I'm also beginning to feel part of a real community, something I've never experienced before in London. I know the lady who works in the designer clothes shop up the road, the vet who owns the practice across the street and the guy who runs the local off-licence. Recently however, I have started to notice that this cosy set up has some rather worrying side effects.

I'm not entirely sure what image my patients have of me, but I like to think that they view me as a sensible and conscientious professional. I therefore have no desire for them to see me trying on racy underwear in a clothes shop or buying copious quantities of gin from the off-licence. Nor do I want them sitting at the next door table when I am out for a boozy dinner with my friends (Tuesday's experience). Then there's the fear that I will be spotted by a patient in the gym changing rooms or the waxing salon. It hasn't happened yet, but the risk now seems all too real.

There's another problem too, and that's that I am now surrounded by people who know that I'm a doctor. It's one thing having friends and family solicit you with their medical dilemmas, but random patients / neighbours on the street? It's too much in my book. The idea of consultations in the queue for the butcher or a spot diagnosis at the bus stop sends shivers down my spine. It's not that I don't like helping people, but I do want a life outside of medicine and try hard to keep work and play separate.

Last year, whilst relaxing in a restaurant on holiday in Brazil, an elderly woman at a neighbouring table collapsed on the floor, mid-starter. With the usual feelings of obligation mixed with fear (no one quite realises how helpless you are as a doctor without your kit), I raced over, announcing my trade. Thankfully she recovered quickly from what turned out to be a simple faint and with her soup the only real casualty, I returned to my table. At the end of the evening the family approached us, I presumed to thank me for my heroics. I was wrong. They were not bearing gifts or hoping to shower me with praise and admiration. What they actually had in mind were a few more medical questions; 'now that we know that you're a doctor'.

So now I am concerned. What if this starts happening to me at home too? Will I be asked about athlete's foot over lunch? Will every evening out be plagued by the fear of disapproving looks from nearby patients? Will I be judged by what's in my shopping trolley?

Should I start investing in disguises?