I can't remember if I've rambled about this before so you may have to bear with me. In the Victorian era those of us from the lower orders got no honorific in society. Gentry would refer to us merely as Jest, or Bloggs, or sometimes if they felt like being familiar Fanny. When we started getting educated and became "Professionals" we earned the right to an honourific by virtue of our office. Physicians took "Doctor".
Surgery owes it's origins to the trade of barbering. The blokes who cut the soldire's hair and shaved their beards had access to lots of lovely sharp knives and weren't afraid to use them. Over time they drifted into dressing as well as inflicting wounds, lancing boils, suturing and so forth. So Surgeons claimed the title "Mister" and so the two types of consultant are still known today.
GPs sit somewhere in the middle, having often a foot in either camp, but we still tend top cling to "Doctor" as our title. But on Friday afternoons I feel like putting out the red and white pole. Not because of some insane urge to wheel out the Tresemme* (formerly only available in the salon) or the clippers (though they do look like jolly good fun and it won't be long to sheep shearing season here in Borsetshire).
No, Friday afternoon is almost always "family planning" afternoon. Not intentionally, but it seems the denizens of Ambridge, like the Cure before them, find "It's Friday I'm in Love!" and all trog down to the sugery for their pills and other requisites. There is only one answer to this phenomenon, so on a Friday afternoon I tend to greet all punters of child bearing age to a cheery entreaty as they cross the threshold.
"Going anywhere nice on your holidays this year?"
* not sure about the "esses" and "emms" in this one.