IT was my turn to take the three-year-old to the GP for his jags. I say "my turn" as if to imply my wife and I have done our share over the last few years.
The truth is that it has been my turn since the boy was a month old. I've managed to dodge every visit. We men can't handle this kind of thing. Women are better at pain. They're used to it. Pain, particularly of the premeditated type on one's own fle
sh and blood, is just wrong for men to witness. Or so I argued. But then I was off work. And my wife wasn't. And this time it wasn't just my turn again. It was MY TURN.
The day of the jag reared up several days out, like a shadow in my peripheral vision. The boy was fine, of course. But that just made it worse. How can you smile back at your innocent firstborn as he offers you his trusting and loving gaze, knowing you are, in a few short hours, going to let a stranger to stab him with a six-inch, poisoned dart?
He'd found a train set in the cupboard that we'd bought for his birthday. Now he's found it, we told him this would be his treat for getting his "medicine". The poor duped child just couldn't wait. "Am I getting my medicine today, Daddy? Am I? Am I? Please Daddy." God, I felt so bad. This was torture. If you've seen The Island – in which a group of clones are bred to think they're going to the Promised Land, only to then be killed for spare parts – you'll know how I felt.
Then we went to a friend's for dinner. They've got a three-year-old too. And guess what? Katie, the mother, had taken little Noah for his jag the week before. It's the pre-school booster. (That's three doses of lethal poison all at once – three!) And guess what, added Katie with relish, they stab the children simultaneously in both arms. She made a Freddy Krueger-like pincer thrust with her arms. And you'll never guess what else? Noah got a massive reaction the day after – rash, temperature, practically killed him. Or maybe I imagined the last bit.
Wednesday now moved into my vision, front and centre. The day dawned. "Can we go now, Daddy!?" Oh son, forgive me. We sat in the reception room. The sounds of distant screams wafted up from unseen rooms within, followed by mothers hastily carrying their sniffling children outside. "Barnes!" shouted the camp guard. We went inside. Boy sat on my lap. "You'll need to hold his arms down in case he flinches." I closed my eyes. I felt him wince.
That was two weeks ago. And I can confirm everything is now fine. The pain went pretty quickly. There wasn't any post-operative trauma at all. All told, I'm glad to say I'm doing okay.
• Eddie Barnes is Scotland on Sunday's political editor
