Today I realised that the aim of travelling to work is survival. I need to arrive at work fighting fit and raring to save lives.

Most doctors drive to work — on their own, in a four-wheel drive, SUV or large European sedan of sufficient grandeur and engine capacity to illustrate their importance to the rest of humanity, while protecting themselves against the eventuality that they might accidentally run into any of the rest of humanity. Conservation issues like air pollution, noise pollution, consumption of fossil fuel resources, and pedestrian safety are matters of global concern, but apparently do not apply to small, important self-interest groups such as doctors. Once the children have left home, doctors may exchange the four-wheel drive for a two-seater convertible; it is never too late to have a happy adolescence.

An advanced sense of political correctness had persuaded me to travel to work by public transport instead. Public transport is nature’s way of introducing you to your fellow human beings with a degree of intimacy normally reserved for other species — say, locusts, termites and wildebeests. Of course, the money I save by not running a car is picked from my pocket on a regular basis. Each journey is an olfactory kaleidoscope of cheap deodorant, pheromones, body odour, and garlic. After each rush-hour journey, I envy lemmings, who can at least look forward to an end to their travels.

Today, my bank balance and waistline encouraged me to cycle to work. The purpose of cycling is to make you feel good about yourself and your lifestyle — you are an environmentally friendly urban crusader against pollution. The bonus is that the gridlock of modern city traffic means cycling to work actually saves time. I spent this time donning the protective headwear, luminous protective clothing and protective breathing apparatus that I need to survive cycling to work. The money I save by cycling to work will no doubt be spent on replacing stolen bicycle parts, and chiropractor’s bills.

I have discovered that I should aim to arrive at work earlier than my colleagues, so I can glance pointedly at my watch as they arrive. If any of my colleagues consistently arrives before me, I will send them an anonymous note suggesting they get a life.

Travelling to work is just part of the rich tapestry that comprises a working physician’s day.

I am learning through experience that the aim of a committee meeting is not to commit to anything. The aim of a board meeting is boredom.

The seating arrangement at committee meetings appears to be a ritual rooted in deep tradition. You sit flanked by your friends and show them the defamatory cartoons you have drawn, and giggle conspiratorially. You sit opposite your sworn enemies, the subjects of your cartoons, and try to out-stare them. Any attempt to alter the seating arrangement is a Declaration of War. For committee meetings, an interest in conflict is much more important than a conflict of interest.

I now know the two operating rules applicable to all committees on which I sit. Rule One is: “Never volunteer for anything”. Rule Two is: “Never become the Secretary”. The Secretary is the only member of a committee who ever does any work.

It has become clear that I will never have time to read the meeting agenda in advance. However, I have decided to always bring an impressive manila folder, containing the agenda papers for the meeting later that afternoon, which I can try to read surreptitiously. If the meeting is long enough and I am not too tired, I can also deal with the other papers in my manila folder, including the curriculum vitae of the applicants for the registrar position, the journal articles I should have read for that evening’s journal club, and a sheaf of love letters, which, sadly, I had to write to myself.

For meetings of sufficient length, the technique of microsleeps can improve my cerebral function for the remains of the day. For the appropriately named board meetings, a siesta may even be an option. I have found that if I am startled awake by hearing my name mentioned, I should say confidently, “I agree completely”. If I have just inadvertently agreed to chair a sub-committee or, horror of horrors, to be the new Secretary, the solution is to subsequently remember an unfortunate conflict of interest. If a more detailed reply to the question was expected, a long sentence liberally interspersed with terms like “clinical governance”, “mandatory criteria for accreditation”, “quality improvement”, “transparency” and “public accountability” is guaranteed to glaze eyes and end interrogation ... er ... discussion.

The third, unwritten, rule of committee meetings is that when the Chair says “Any other business”, this is not a question, but in fact a signal for us to pack up our papers and head for the exit.

I have long known that the aim of a journal club is calories. In order to nourish your brain, you first need to nourish the larger proportion of your body that is not brain. Pharmaceutical company sponsorship improves the nutritional status of the journal club substantially, while also improving the interest of junior staff. Apparently, lavish journal club suppers (or breakfasts or lunches) do not constitute a confiture of interest.

I know that the probability of my having to present at journal club is inversely proportional to the number of attendees. However, although a large journal club reduces the frequency of my presentations, it increases my exposure to my colleagues’ presentation foibles.

I spent this evening’s journal club noting down the seven recognised stereotypes of journal club presentation:

• The abstract artist is an advocate of abstract thinking, who never progresses beyond the abstract of a paper. After hearing 12 consecutive abstracts in an hour, I usually feel like using a lump of cement to demonstrate the power of concrete thinking.

• The anecdotist presents interesting case reports.

• The evangelist reads long sections of the paper verbatim, in an ecclesiastical monotone or drone usually reserved for sermons and bible readings.

• The EBV-ologist is not an evangelist, but has nevertheless undergone a religious conversion, as well as a seroconversion, after being infected with EBV (evidence-based virus). The symptoms of EBV infection are both local and systematic: echolalic repetition of the terms “randomised controlled trial”, “meta-analysis” and “What is the level of evidence?”; a mania for searching the literature; and irrational worship of an obscure deity named Archie Cochrane.

• The reflexologist presents papers on alternative medicine, using a holistic approach that excludes statistics and data.

• The psychoanalyst interprets the paper from a Freudian perspective, while reclining on a couch. The results may not be statistically significant, but the true significance of the paper depends on the author’s unconscious motives for performing the study, and the author’s relationship with his or her mother. To the psychoanalyst, EBM means expressed breast milk more often than evidence-based medicine.

• The apologist has forgotten to read the papers and forgotten to organise the supper.

My conclusion from this evening is that while the journal club is of anthropological interest, it does not otherwise qualify as further education.