I haven't been to the doctors in 8 years.

I’m terrible with maintenance.

This explains why I once over-heated the engine of my Corolla on the way to work and why the Nativity scene stable I’d handcrafted out of Paddle Pop sticks collapsed in on itself just a few Christmases after its debut under our tree. Things break.

So do human bodies but, like any man, I’ve an aversion to doctor’s surgeries of a particularly strong flavour.

I hate them. No, wait. Let me be clear. I LOVE doctors and I love surgeons and science and medicine. I like the idea of finding solace for most that ails me. Cures, even. It’s a delightful safety net.

But I’d sooner visit the sun from a slingshot than take myself off for a check-up. It’s been eight years and I’m not proud of it.

I confess that I have a cavalier attitude to my own health. I was a heavy smoker until 3 months ago, drank with reckless abandon in my early years (who didn’t, am I right?) and ate burgers like they were caviar. There was a certain ‘she’ll be right’ attitude whenever illness prevailed.

Only rarely in the past eight years have I even remotely felt like a visit to the doctor’s, or an emergency ward, was warranted but I was usually distracted by life or a shiny object after the briefest of moments and life went on its merry way.

Men, rightly or wrongly or just plain badly, are mechanics of sorts. Not always of the motor variety. We make genuine appraisals of our own bodies like we would a complex machine. Squeezing bits here, testing for abnormalities there. All very solemn and serious and … measured. On the surface.

But I get the impression we could find a shark still gnawing on an elbow and come to the conclusion that everything would be fine after a lie down.

Guilty.

There’s a lot of research going around but it seems almost universal. Men overwhelmingly only go to the doctor when sick and are about 20 per cent (in Britain) less likely than women to go at all. Furthermore, 70 per cent of men in their 40s had never had a prostate exam. Any guesses why?

My reasons are not for comfort per se, but rather because I have a gripping fear of what the doctor will tell me and of the needles he will jettison into my flailing limbs and the laundry list of ailments previously unknown to me for which I will have to seek further treatment. Yes, I am somewhat aware that this is precisely why a doctor’s check-up is necessary.

I asked around our editorial meeting recently, as a genuine plea, whether I could organise to have blood tests done, needles administered and the litany of other uncomfortable tests conducted while I was knocked out, preferably on an anesthetic that wasn’t administered by a hypodermic.

They laughed.

And so it goes.

What’s your relationship like with your doctor? What about your partner’s relationship?