I like you. Do you want a kiss?

I think these were my exact words when the lovely Dr Syed told me I no longer required a lung biopsy.

I'd been sat on a trolley outside the CT scanner feeling a total fraud. I could quite clearly have walked from the ward to the radiology department. I now understand this is a blasphemous thought which could cost a poorly paid porter his job.

A quite beautiful English voice emanated from around the corner; shortly followed by its owner. A very smart, not unattractive, doctor clutching a can of cold Coke.

When the nurse said “This is Emma”. He looked at me in horror. Admittedly, I'd had the worst night's sleep of my life and have been ill for six weeks but even so I thought it a little rude. “How old are you, Emma?”

I'll forgive him the look of revulsion. He was concerned that I was far too young to have such a risky procedure. The doctor was brutally blunt with me as he described how it was unlikely he could carry out the biopsy without collapsing my lung. I felt very strangely reassured that someone was being honest with me rather than wanting to run for the nearest door.

I signed the consent forms after we'd struck a deal. (The forms, incidentally, have to list every possible consequence of the treatment including 'pain' and 'bruising'. A sad reflection on our litigation-happy society. “But, the doctor never said sticking a ruddy great needle into my lungs might hurt or leave a bruise...”). I would have an up-to-date scan and if it showed that the lesion was any smaller the biopsy wouldn't go ahead.

To everyone's delight, not least my own, Dr Syed was able to tell me that there was virtually nothing left; the biopsy was unnecessary.

I like you. Do you want a kiss?