They hate me because I am pretty. That's the only possible conclusion.
After the ward round this morning the consultant drew me aside for a private conversation where he pinged me for not using my initiative. This soon after I volunteered to write a letter to the school of one of the patients addressing a problem and the hospital's stance on it, discussed it with the mother, wrote the letter, got the registrar to sign it, gave it to the mother and also put a copy in the notes. All in ten minutes tops. I thought I was a bit of a hero actually, so I was mildly taken aback to be rapped on the knuckles for not trying.
And what was the actual problem? It seems that earlier in the round I had had the temerity to walk with the consultant to the next patient's room, rather than run off and grab the notes. Parenthetically, the reason that I didn't scurry off and get the notes was because someone else was already doing so, so it seemed superfluous for me to make a token effort. Little did I know that my presence alongside the consultant for those ten or fifteen seconds that it took for the notes to arrive would be so distasteful to him.
I got thrown into a bit of a funk by it, but after lunching with some of my Esteemed Colleagues, I'm back on track. Let's face it, it's not my fault I was born so pretty. I can't be held responsible for the fact that merely glancing upon my godlike visage unprepared can stun the viewer into a drooling stupor.