I've been poorly this year, very poorly...but not so poorly that I can’t still have a bucketful of fun. But there's a problem in my social life.

They aren't close friends, you've met them here and there at other 'dos', passed the time of day at the checkout, seen them at the school gate, but suddenly you are the complete object of their fascination. They spot you across a room, mouth silently at their companions, "She's the one ..." and beeline towards you. You smile, but their face is puckered, as if a particularly large raw onion has been pushed up their bottom. They grab your arm, push close against you and whisper conspiratorially in very, very precise words "How ...are...you?"

"Fine, thanks." They look disappointed. "No, really, how was it? You can tell me...everything."

The face contorts more as a red pepper is added to the onion and they squeeze your arm tighter, their mouth against your ear breathing: "What treatment did they give you?"

Look, you stupid prat, you feel like saying. Don't you understand I have lived, breathed this illness for the past year, it's the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing at night. I just want to be normal, enjoy an evening out and forget about it. Fears invade my thoughts constantly, the last ruddy thing I need at a party when I am finally beginning to relax is someone I hardly know raking it all up. I do not need to sate your morbid curiosity or pander to your Mother Teresa delusions. If you are genuinely interested in me, ask me about what books I am reading, where I've been recently, how my fantasy footie team is faring. Tell me about your holidays, even, ye gods, your kids' exam results. Anything but bloody well prodding at my still sore wound. If, and when, I want to share information, I will be the person to decide that.

But, of course, I don't say those things. Once again I am caught off guard, trapped by social conventions and thwarted good manners, to idiotically reveal to someone I know has a megaphone for a mouth details I will regret later.

It must be like this for so many people who have had a bad time: a divorce, a redundancy, or even worse the loss of a child. The last thing they need once they find the courage to be sociable is to spend time with the Spanish inquisition of relative strangers. It infuriates me that I bottle it, that I don't tell them to shut the F up. Instead, I get bullied into answering their questions, inwardly fuming, realising the year has left me less robust than I thought, unable to stand up to them without bursting into tears. The party is spoilt as dark thoughts and memories of the past months' trauma return and I just want to leave.

A nurse at the hospital tells me this is common and, of course, nothing to do with any real empathy but everything to do with these people’s own fears and egos. It bolsters their security and sense of self and off the record. Do tell them to shut the F up, she says. You'll get better quicker.

I know of a number of people who have been driven to move house because of this intrusive questioning, and it’s definitely crossing my mind, but I guess that would just be running away. I suppose I should stand and fight.

So if you are one of these people: please, please don’t do it anymore, be sensitive enough to know that if I want to talk about such personal things I’ll choose my own time, person and place.

Otherwise, I regret I can’t be held responsible for my actions. I will be driven to serious GBH.... I believe you can do a lot of damage with a canape.