Time was when I’d have thought a fine specimen was a six foot tall hunk with rippling muscles but, disappointingly, the only specimen on my mind this morning was something I had to take along for the doctor to examine. Naturally, I don’t keep special specimen jars in the house (I’m not quite at that stage yet!) so I found one of Mum’s old marmalade jars (which I had washed and saved in order to return to her) and I sterilized it first with boiling water.

How much liquid does a doctor require to make his tests? Is it better to err on the side of caution with too much rather than too little? A few drops would seem ridiculous in a marmalade jar but a full jar would be embarrassing; half a jar might seem half empty rather than half full (especially if the doctor was having a “down” day). In the end I decided to go with the flow and settle for something in-between.

The jar was still a tad warm when I passed it (wrapped discreetly with kitchen roll) to the doctor. I noticed a slight widening of his eyes before he scrutinised the contents.

“It looks clear,” he said, allowing himself a half smile as he turned to me.

He dipped a cotton bud into the jar and, upon withdrawing it, spread a drop across a thin strip of litmus paper. Then he emptied the rest of the specimen down the sink, dropped Mum’s nice jar into the clinical waste bin and took off his rubber gloves.

“Everything is alright,” he assured me.

We both rose as I was about to leave and he passed me a tiny clear plastic container.

“That’s for next time,” he said.

He didn’t laugh – he’s very professional – but I bet they all had a laugh at surgery after I had gone. And now I know that he doesn’t want such a fine specimen next time.