I come from a long and distinguished line of hypochondriacs.

My little sister once went to see our family doctor five times in one week with ailments ranging from a brain tumour and heart defect to kidney failure.

Fortunately the doctor knew her - hellfire, she was his best customer - and he would patiently (forgive the pun) sit and reassure her.

Sometimes, before she had the chance to sit down and entrench herself in his surgery for hours, he would tell her she was not seriously ill.

I'm sure this poor, harrassed country doctor looked forward to their cosy little chats.

Later on, my darling, obsessive sister bought herself a medical dictionary so she could match up her imaginary symptoms with real ailments.

Then she trained to be a nurse so she could give herself a qualified opinion without having to refer to these doubting medical experts.

As kids, if we ever went out without hat, scarf and gloves in the middle of summer, mum used to shriek: "Get something on, you'll get pneumonia."

Dad would refuse to speak to us all for a week as he manfully kept his secret hypochondriacal worries to himself.

Real hypochondriacs are not making it up, they really are sick.

They suffer from hypochondria, described in the dictionary as "morbid depression without real cause", and its symptoms are as serious as any of the illnesses they worry about.

Have you got a life plan?

Do you buy your Christmas presents in the January sales and have them wrapped in February all in good time for next Yuletide?

Do you book that Caribbean cruise three years in advance?

Do you carefully save for your retirement and plan a happy list of activities?

You are fortunate.

Many people out there won't plan six months ahead because they are convinced they are so ill, either they'll be incapacitated or dead by then.

They take last minute holidays and avoid all long-term decisions. If they hear the word cancer they touch wood in the same way a medieval peasant would make a sign to ward off the evil eye.

Every little cough is lung cancer; every stab of indigestion after a heavy meal is a heart attack; every headache is a cerebral haemmorhage (despite those 12 pints the night before).

That's another thing about hyperwotsitmaniacs. They know what smoking and drinking can do to them, so they smoke and drink more to "forget" their worries.

They avoid seeking medical advice because they want to put off the evil moment when they are told that sneeze is terminal.

They would sooner reject an opportunity of early treatment and have another few weeks of ignorant bliss.

I've had time to reflect on this topic. I was off sick one day last week Note to Ed: And you thought I was taking advantage of the sunniest day of the year.

I had an eye infection which blurred my vision and burst the blood vessels in my eyes so they resembled something out of Fright Night.

Like you do, I got to thinking about the horrors of going blind, the things I'd miss seeing and doing: driving (yippee), kids growing up, reading, pretty faces, flowers, pretty faces and a foaming pint.

So I went to see the doctor. Now I hate hospitals, because they're always full of sick people, and I hate doctors.

"Don't be silly, darling," chirps the wife. "They're there to make you better."

She's obviously not one of us, because we know doctors are only there to confirm our worst fears.

My doctor now pats me reassuringly on the shoulder as if to say "You worry too much." At least I think that's what it means.

A few weeks ago, the job took me to a lecture at the University of York.

It was supposed to be a fundraising launch and I had no idea Professor Norman Maitland would give a graphic lecture on the cause and effects of prostate cancer.

If I'd known, I wouldn't have gone. I left there with buttocks clenched and haven't sat down in comfort since.

If only there were a pill to treat the curse of imaginary illness.

If only people didn't tell you to pull yourself together like you were a pair of old curtains.

At least hypochondriacs have the last laugh - you must have heard of the gravestone inscription which read; "I told you I was ill."

Updated: 08:55 Tuesday, April 22, 2003