My old doctor was the sort of bushy-bearded, no-nonsense, antediluvian eccentric whose picture would not look out of place adorning the heavily curlicued label on a bottle of Victorian liver tonic.
"You drink alcohol?" he might say. "Well, for Heaven's sake at least drink strong ale, vintage port or single malt."
"You smoke? Well, there's nothing really wrong with the occasional Cuban every now and again."
"What's wrong with you now? A nasty cough? Don't bother me with such trivialities. Buy yourself a packet of lozenges. If you're still coughing in a fortnight go to the Emergency Room."
Alas, the dear fellow is retired now, replaced by Nurse Ratchet's nephew and his computerized diagnoses.
Honestly, these days, I'd prefer traipsing into the woods to see the wise woman who lives under an oak tree and drink her elixir of berries and twigs than visit a sterile clinic for a prescription of little pink pills.