"Homeopaths and naturopaths in pharmacies are the paedophiles of science." Sadly, this sentence is not my own but the work of some anonymous aphorist in an online forum. I have used it merely to get your attention. Oh, the internet - everyone's favourite excuse to completely lose perspective.

This month homeopathy, the world's most popular alternative to medicine, hit the headlines when a couple in Australia were jailed for killing their daughter by refusing to treat her "severe skin disorder" through conventional means. Wow, I comforted myself, thank God I'm not doing anything stupid like that …

Of course, although I'm ill, my skin condition is decidedly less severe than poor Gloria Sam's, who was dealt an entire life's worth of suffering in her first nine months. According to an unnecessarily salacious Associated Press report, she died of septicaemia and malnutrition, having also contracted an eye infection "that had started to melt her corneas". It's probably the most harrowing thing I have ever read.

Next to her I have nothing to complain about. Even when I'm as red as a baboon's bottom and flaky as a French pastry, my condition is never more than a real pain in the neck. I have the luxury of being able cultivate a kind of gloomy insolence towards the whole thing, thereby fending off the miserabilism that would otherwise set in. Because no one likes a miserabilist (except most people, if Charlie Brooker's career is anything to go by).

And as I'm only gently ill, I'm ideal fodder for alternative medicine. When a homeopath claims they can cure Aids, the blogosphere rightly vomits in consternation. But towards the bourgeois end of the disease spectrum, the arguments against wanton pill popping seem a lot more solid. To flip the argument on its head: why do we treat small diseases as if they are large ones? Which evidence dictates that we should default to synthesised, symptom-suppressing medicines in our treatment of minor ailments? Shouldn't we err on the side of medicating more gently if at all possible, thereby avoiding nasty side effects and dependency?

One prime example: through a series of unfortunate events, I once ended up inside the lair of a psychiatrist. After listening patiently to my teenage angst for half an hour, she quietly left the room and came back with a prescription for Prozac. Prozac! I didn't take it, and a few weeks later, my mood cleared of its own accord.

This month has been a bit of a mixed bag, skin-wise. At times, it's been bloody awful, but there has also been the odd glimmer of hope. For instance, I managed to recover from a flare-up all on my ownsome, without the use of steroids. I've now done without stabilisers for the last two weeks, which has given me an edifying and energising feeling of non-dependency. I don't know whether this is the treatment working or simply nature taking over, but it feels good.

Last week, my homeopath took a long look at the rash on my arms and dropped my dosage by half - the "like cures like" poison-effect may have provoked a stronger reaction than intended, she said. I assured her that this was an improvement on the previous week, when on a grim Friday evening I cancelled all social engagements and went to bed at eight.

But I can certainly live with it, and I'd rather live with the symptoms of my illness than damage myself by medicating to hide them. I also don't want to turn this blog into a complain-a-thon given the much more serious cases all over the world.

Instead I'll content myself, as always, with petty victories over no one in particular. At the hospital, I managed to snag a follow-up appointment far sooner than usual, basically by staring at some blank diary pages and pretending they were full. Ricky Gervais is right: lying is good for you. Now I'm off to forge some banknotes and buy myself a peerage.

This month's verdict (in haiku form):

In the absence of
any options I scratch on
like a puzzled chimp.