Malade imaginaire

In competition no. 2494 you were invited to submit a poem written by a hypochondriac about a minor ailment.
Many of you alluded to the fact that the internet is fertile hunting-ground for the hypochondriac, providing limitless scope for self-diagnosis. Cyberchondria sends hordes of the worried well to their GPs brandishing wads of incontrovertible downloaded ‘evidence’. What hypochon-driacs crave above all else, of course, is vindication. To doubting doctors, spouses, friends and family, the message rang out loud and clear: ‘You’ll be sorry…’ — or, as the epitaph on Spike Milligan’s gravestone reads, ‘I told you I was ill’.
The winners, printed below, get £30 each. The bonus fiver goes to a restrained W.J. Webster, who resisted the lure of comedy ailments such as flatulence and halitosis; the less said about Basil Ransome-Davies, the better.

I have this slight but nudging ache
That never settles in one place:
A symptom doctors might mistake
For some quite different, trivial case.
Is