I guess that I decided to be a GP when I was about six years old. At this point, I’m not sure that I had a clue about what General Practice actually entailed. But I was still drawn to it. To the idea of helping people, I think.
As it was coming towards winter, Toby, my son, got a cold. He had all the classic tell tale signs – runny nose, bit of a cough, slight fever, and he was definitely a little more grumpy than usual. His cousins had had the same, so I was sure that they were the likely culprits, and there certainly was something going around – I’d seen lots of children at the GP practice where I work with similar things.
So there we were, three of us, in my Vauxhall Zafira on a dull Autumn morning, on a weigh bridge at the entrance to a recycling plant, shouting up through the car window to ask if it was ok if we came to pick up a tonne of compost. After a ‘let me make a few calls’ response from the booth I wound the window up again as quickly as possible and re-parked the car out of the way of the rubbish trucks lining up behind us, as the smell of rotting rubbish started to fill up the car.