A few weeks before I sat my medical finals, a male surgeon of the old-school variety flashed up the next slide in his revision lecture on breast cancer.

Suddenly – incongruously – there on his powerpoint presentation, amid the bleak statistics about the second biggest cancer killer of women in Britain, was a young blonde woman, sitting coquettishly in front of a mammography machine, her naked breasts prominently displayed.

Her appearance seemed designed to shock – and, perhaps, to titillate its broadcaster. As an audible gasp erupted from his student audience, the consultant paused, as if to admire his talent for causing a stir, and grinned mirthlessly. “Of course,” he commented, voice dripping with mock ruefulness, “most of the patients I see in my clinic are in their 50s at least. Nothing like as nice as this one is to look at.’”

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He smoothly returned to discussing science and statistics, as though he had said nothing untoward at all. Quite apart from the fact that I knew the mother of at least one of the students in the room was receiving treatment for breast cancer, this apparent contempt for women from a man who performed mastectomies for a living was difficult to stomach. I spoke out. So did others. To their credit, the medical school leadership took seriously the deluge of complaints, and the surgeon in question never taught medical students again.

Since allegations surrounding the Hollywood producer, Harvey Weinstein, have exploded, via a hashtag, into the global #MeToo phenomenon, I have felt compelled to reflect upon the issue of sexual harassment in my own workplace, the NHS. Experiences like the one above resurfaced uncomfortably. Nor were they confined to medical school.

Once, while I was still a very junior doctor, the men on my firm organised a “boys’ night out”. Only the male doctors were allowed to attend – their female counterparts were excluded. I suspected, at the time, that the women laughed this off because complaining would have only cemented their inferior status as not being “one of the boys”.

During the evening out, as the beers and banter flowed, one consultant told every male doctor I worked with that my arrival on the firm had caused him a problem. “The thing is,” he confessed, to uproarious laughter, “every time she’s on my ward round, I can hardly walk because of the size of my hard-on.”

Needless to say, the next day, one of the “boys” couldn’t resist telling me what the consultant had said the night before. Mortified, I did nothing, my silence helping to perpetuate such behaviour.

#MeToo has exposed the ubiquity of sexual harassment and assault in the workplace. The hashtag swiftly became a rallying cry for women across the globe, whose personal stories flooded social media. Yet, judging by UK press coverage of the phenomenon, you could be forgiven for thinking that sexual harassment is confined to politics, journalism and the arts. There is a mismatch between the salacious tales that generate the column inches – those involving well-known politicians or celebrities – and the everyday experiences of sexism described on social media by millions of women from all walks of life.

With its 1.6 million staff, the NHS is the fifth biggest human organisation in the world. It would be extraordinary if it did not contain sexual harassment. And, of course, it does, as my own experiences demonstrate. To me, what is more striking, however, is its surprising infrequency. In 13 years of medical school and hospital medicine, I can recall only a handful of examples of overt misogyny. Given the rigidly hierarchical nature of medicine – in which lowly juniors answer to all-powerful consultants, the majority of whom are male – the potential for abuse of power is rife. Why, then, is sexual harassment not endemic?

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Perhaps doctors these days, in an understaffed NHS, are simply too knackered for extra-curricular power play. Or perhaps the excess of bodily fluids – and absence of alcohol – make hospitals the least conducive workplace possible for sexual misdemeanours. Or maybe doctors are, by and large, pretty decent- though every group, of course, has its outliers.

Tellingly, I initially balked at writing this piece – fearful of potential repercussions. That, in itself, signals a culture in which women are not empowered to speak out. Silence should never be met with complacency. For the sake of tomorrow’s female medics, I hope the #MeToo conversation embraces the NHS.