Yesterday, I had my butt kicked by a consultant. In front of three junior doctors, it was explained curtly, ruthlessly that the way I'd charted a history from a clinic patient was woeful and inadequate.

The intern had quietly copped a similar treatment not five minutes earlier, at the same time as presenting his case; the experience was cringe-inducing, despite the intern's grace.

The consultant is quite forthright and particular; each patient's history must be documented just so in certain and exact language. I'd managed to take sufficient history given the presenting complaint, but my written order of information was, well, not up to scratch.

Ironically, my thinking and subsequent questioning were much more clear than in similar settings last year; I know why I'm asking what I'm asking as lists of differentials begin to form on my mind's slate. The last step, communicating in clearly to the consultant via written form, is not a foreign language; I just seem to smudge some of the punctuation marks.

According to at least one professor, shame and fear are the cornerstones of medical education. Neither of these emotions were particularly strong during my semi-public ass-kicking. The experience made me more determined.

I'm not in love with gynaecology, nor am I particularly enamoured with this consultant. Sure as anything, I'll go back to their next clinic. I'll take a history, write it up, and probably get whipped again. I'll do it because it will make me better.