We called the emergency doctor and were given a 1am appointment. Panicking, rushing and just generally being absolutely pathetic, I dressed myself in the nearest available garmentry. And while it might not be the most obvious attire in which to attend a medical centre in St Helens in the early hours of a Thursday morning, the Bermuda shorts, poncho and diving flippers combo more than demonstrated my unquestionable commitment to my daughter's well being. Dave trotted out in sportswear, finished off with a pair of brown leather brogues. No socks.
We shuffled into the surgery, fitting right in among the Mental Health outpatients. I managed to catch the back of someone's ankle with one of my flippers, at which they immediately fired out some barbed comment about the luminosity of my shorts.
"I last wore these in 1987 mate. When did you last wear that...face?" I retorted
(Look, it was late. I was preoccupied. It was the best I could come up with. And receiving fashion critique from someone who truly believes they are a fireplace is a sobering moment.)
We were called in to see the doctor; a man waging a blatant war with his dentist if the burnt fence nestled inside his mouth was anything to go by. He hauled his rotund frame into action, taking The Poop's temperature and looked in her eyes with a little light.
He then sat back in his chair.
We looked on. Waiting for a verdict.
He looked at me and Dave. And remained silent.
"Is she okay?" I asked.
"She's fine," the toothless wonder responded.
"Well...she's not," Dave said, staring hard.
The GP sighed heavily then set about listening to her chest, before looking in her ears and pressing her tummy; all clearly an empty charade conducted for our benefit. He then sat back in the chair. "She's fine. Just Calpol and sleep and she'll be fine."
"But I thought you said she is fine?"
Thank GOD we went. The wise words of a professional always ease my mind at times like this.