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A moderately interesting story of the life of a neurologist, marred by the gigantic ego of the author. I'm sure you need a gigantic ego to do the job and there are plenty of stories where he gets stuff wrong (at first, before getting it right obv) but the overall impression is of being sat next to someone at a dinner party who starts off seeming an absolutely fascinating and enthralling raconteur and by the third course you're wondering who you ought to stab in the eye with a dessert fork: yourself or him.

This is not helped by the "I don't care, sod off" attitude he (his persona) takes to people with psychosomatic conditions, many of whom seem to have been sexually abused. He sees someone who is literally so traumatised by family abuse their entire body stops functioning, and his attitude is "stop wasting my time, I have real patients to help" rather than, I dunno, "let me refer you to another department and ideally the police". And yet the narrator repeatedly applauds himself for his own humanity, humility, kindness, and willingness to listen compared to other neurologists. It makes you wonder what the rest of them are like.