An appointment with the doctor. A survivors tale part three...

Prisoner's log, 7.10am: I check the diary to remind myself of any appointments or reminders for the day ahead. I see an entry for a double appointment with the Doctor and Asthma nurse for Pickles after school. Pants. I'd almost forgotten about that...

Prisoner's log, 8.56am: While waiting in the playground for Pickles to go into her classroom, I remind her that we have a check up with the Doctor later. "Oh yes" she says, and proceeds to inform any of her classmates within ear shot, who clearly couldn't care less, that she has an appointment later and that it's very important. She makes it sound like she's deathly ill. Bloody drama queen.

...

Prisoner's log, 3.34pm: Pickles is out late from school and goes hyper in the play ground and all the way to the car. She has WAY too much energy for a child who has just been in school all day, had a two hour dance class the evening before, and refused to go to sleep before 8.45pm.

Prisoner's log, 3.35pm: Puds decides that screaming sounds like a brilliant idea and joins in at the top of his voice, whilst also twisting in the straps of his pushchair to try and get out. This results in him sliding down the seat so his legs are dragging on the wet ground underneath, and the strap has worked its way up around his neck. When I stop to untangle him he shouts angrily at me, because nearly strangling himself is somehow my fault. Obviously. Bad mummy. Why don't I let my two year old walk, I hear you ask? Because we are on a tight timescale today and he likes to regularly try topping himself by running in front of cars. A trip to A&E would be really inconveinient right now.

Prisoner's log, 3.46pm: Four minutes until our appointment time and we pull up outside the surgery to discover there are no spaces left in the car park. Brilliant.

Prisoner's log, 3.48pm: I find a road side space in a residential street nearby. Thank you mystery van man who pulled away just as I turned the corner!

Prisoner's log, 3.49pm: We walk up to the zebra crossing. Or at least I try to. I carry Puds for speed, much to his displeasure. He kicks his wellies off while in the middle of the road causing me to hold up traffic while I fetch them. Pickles decides the middle of a zebra crossing is the perfect place to practice hopscotch. Puds pulls my hair in anger, and flings himself backwards to try and get out of my arms. I nearly drop him and swear loudly at them both in my head while gritting my teeth.

Prisoner's log, 3.50pm: I let Puds down to put his wellies on so he can walk, but he escapes and runs straight through a puddle. It's apparently my fault his feet are now soaking wet. I take his socks off and put his wellies on. Which is another mistake I have made, because although he usually hates wearing socks (aka "foot prisons"), these were Hey Duggee ones. The Holy Grail of all socks. His pride and joy. This will not be forgiven until he has had at least one chocolate biscuit!

Prisoner's log, 3.51pm: We check in for our appointments. Pickles has been talking non stop since I picked her up from school, I have only listened to half of it. Apparently I missed the bit where she asked me to bring her school reading into the waiting room for her to do. She's now going to be "soooooo bored" and only playing games on my phone can possibly make up for my heinous mistake. I refuse, imagining the arguments between her and Puds over it.

Prisoner's log, 3.52pm: We choose a seat. Puds isn't happy with my choice so climbs over all of the free seats and some of the people.

Prisoner log, 3.55pm:  Puds shouts his distain at the alternative activities I present to him. Bag of wonders, you have failed me.

Prisoner's log, 3.57pm:  Puds has found an activity he enjoys! Spreading the leaflets and magazines all over the floor to create trip hazards...

Prisoner's log, 4.01pm: Pickles has delared that I'm boring, the waiting room is boring, the books and magazines are boring, the toys are boring, everything is boring. She repeatedly demands to play on my phone, I am determined to stay strong. I shall not give in!

Prisoner's log, 4.03pm: I gave in.

Prisoner's log, 4.04pm: Pickles whines that the Cbeebies games on my phone are not the ones she wanted to play. She wants Mario Run that's on the iPad. Which is at home. This answer is not acceptable to her. "Fine!" she says, "I'll play Cbeebies, but I won't have fun!" She moves away from me and sits underneath the No Phones sign.

Prisoner's log, 4.05pm: Puds is hungry. I manage to find a soreen lunch loaf in my bag and pass it to him as surreptitiously as I can. The lady sitting next to the No Food sign frowns at me. Maybe I should have offered her one too?

Prisoner's log, 4.06pm: Puds has smeared the soreen over the window while counting the trees he can see outside. I try to clean it with baby wipes and make the issue a million times worse. Frosted glass is more transparent than what I have made this window look like.

Prisoner's log, 4.11pm: Puds tries to "make friends" with another child who is playing with the toys by standing over them rather intimidateingly and talking loudly at them. The other child, although older than Puds, is obviously a little freaked out and scuttles back to their parent. Puds is thrilled to have frightened off this rival for the toys, and seems satisfied to have them to himself. I throw an apologetic glance at the parent who seems determined to ignore me.

Prisoner's log, 4.16pm: Puds has spotted that Pickles has my phone. Balls.

Prisoner's log, 4.17pm: Saved by the bell! We are called into see the asthma nurse.

Prisoner's log, 4.18pm: Pickles is not thrilled at me having taken the phone away so she can listen to nurse. She talks loudly over us, changes the subject, interrupts, climbs over me, refuses to sit next to me, and decides to test out the echo in the room by shouting. Puds has stolen the blood pressure cuff from the nurse's desk and is whiping it around like a lasso.

Prisoner's log, 4.19pm: Puds decides to try opening the fridge where the vaccines are kept, smears sticky finger over a glass table that I'm sure will probably need sterilising now, and uses the scales as footstool to play with the tap and sink.

Prisoner's log, 4.20pm: Pickles complains about having to take her shoes off to be weighed and measured. Then complains about putting them back on again. Every question that is asked by the nurse is ignored or the subject changed. The nurse is being very polite and humouring Pickles, but I can tell by her expression that it's been a long day, and the last thing she wants right now is an uncooperative five year old in her room. I can relate, I don't really fancy being in the presence of an uncooperative five year old either. I wonder just how irritating and uncontrollable my children have to be before I'm put onto an official list?

Prisoner's log, 4.22pm: Appointment over, thank goodness! One down, one to go. Pickles ignores the nurses goodbye and announces at the volume of a jet engine that she will be bunny hopping all the way to the waiting room. Puds makes a last grab for the blood pressure cuff on his way out.

Prisoner's log, 4.23pm: Pickles is not happy we can't go home yet, my telling her that we were here for TWO appointments apparently fell on deaf ears. I shouldn't judge, I'm trying to tune her voice out myself right now. She demands my phone again. Defeated, I pass it to her.

Prisoner's log, 4.26pm: Puds is blowing raspberries on the glass window that separates the waiting room from the reception area. The receptionist's look less than impressed. I distract him with a bag of mini cheddars, mindful that I am probably screwing myself over for getting him to eat dinner later.

Prisoner's log, 4.32pm: We are called into our second and last appointment. Pickles is once again furious that I have taken the phone from her. She announces loudly to the waiting room that the "No Tori" sign will be put back up on her bedroom door the instant we get home. I internally cheer at the thought of being banned from bedtime and make a mental note to pee her off more often. Puds shouts "BYYYEEEE" loudly to everyone, spraying mini cheddars crumbs everywhere, and gives them a jolly wave.

Prisoner's log, 4.33pm: We barely make it through the door of the doctor's room when Pickles spots a rain sound maker toy on the desk and demands to look at it. It is reluctantly handed over.

Prisoner's log, 4.34pm: With the absence of a blood pressure cuff in sight, Puds decides that his only option is to forcably take the rain maker from Pickles. A loud squabble ensues overlooked by a slightly incredulous doctor.

Prisoner's log, 4.35pm: I trade with Pickles the toy for the phone. Puds frowns for a second, but then relents and seems satisfied with the toy. Perhaps I have escaped the official list this time...unless the excessive cop out use of screen time is frowned upon as a parenting technique in public...

Prisoner's log, 4.37pm: When I try to leave, Puds refuses to give up the toy. I have to forcibly remove it from his grasp and he leaves in tears wailing loudly. Pickles refuses to give up the phone until she walks into the door frame from not paying attention to where she is going.

Prisoner's log, 4.38pm: We walk out of the surgery to discover it's raining heavily and I left the coats in the car.

...

Prisoner's log, 5.36pm:  Turns out I had indeed screwed myself over for dinner time by giving Puds extra snacks. Pickles has declared me the worst mummy ever for not charging the iPad while she was at school, and has reinstated the "No Tori" sign on her door, but is still insisting I do bedtime and not Daddy. Worst. Punishment. Ever.