“Hold ON!” I beg. “Just hold on! We’ll make it!”

My five-year-old has had a bit of a wee problem. “This could be a medical condition,” my inner amateur doctor tells me.

When the “real” doctor rings back, I explain that I am an amateur doctor and I have diagnosed my daughter with a suspected urinary infection but I would appreciate a second opinion, doctor to doctor. She concurs and asks me to bring her in in an hour-and-a-half.

And could I bring in a wee sample? Yes I could. No problem. Like I say, I’m an amateur doctor.

All I have to do is go and get a little wee jar from the doctors, come back home, get some wee so the “real” doctor can test it with her little dippy papers. I must get myself some of those dippy papers. I’m an amateur doctor after all.

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The traffic seems to instantly close in around us. The route to the doctors is a series of road “works” where no one is working. After 20 minutes I realise I’m not going to make it there and back and there again in time. I turn around.

I roar into the house carrying my daughter like she’s an unexploded bomb, grabbing a plastic snack-pot. She is already weeing as we reach the toilet. I manage to get some wee. Don’t ask.

Change clothes. Back in the car. Stuck in traffic. Get to the doctors two minutes after the appointment is due. The appointment is 45 minutes late. It’s the tensest wait in history.

“Here’s the sample,” I say to the doctor. There is almost nothing left in the snack pot. It is mostly in my coat pocket. I sigh. I didn’t say I was a “real” doctor.