Urine the queue.

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I grabbed my bag off my bed and shoved in my blue folder of important documents, the only tidy corner in my otherwise last-minute, scrumpled-up life.

I was too leisurely over that cup of tea, I thought, the milk had bad breath so I had to take it black and bitter. I jangled the keys in my back pocket and half opened the front door. Wait, do I need a pee? No, I just went. I closed the door behind me.

The metro was humid, as ever. And I struggled to keep flitting my eyes between my book and the linear map above the door, the former being a much better read. There was no way I could miss this appointment, though, I had waited two weeks to get my tax number.

I made it to the office fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes early in Spanish time is a bit like booking a haircut for Friday and turning up on Wednesday to make sure you don't miss it. I was not ushered straight into an office, though, a burly, bald man handed me a ticket

I turned it over, 78. I looked up at the screen, 54. Jesus, that better be moving quickly. I took a seat in amongst the rest of the people who were sharing my bureaucratic adventure. I didn't have Candy Crush to keep me company so I just stared around the room.

That guy looks like he a had a rough night. I wonder what's in that bag. Nice couple, he obviously loves her more than she does him, though, I bet she's texting someone else right now, the rough guy with the bag, haha, oh man I need a pee!

I looked around for a toilet sign. The thought of asking someone flitted through my brain for a nanosecond before sense got the better of me, I'm not embarrassing myself in front of this room of strangers like some sort of massive toddler at a playgroup. I'm British, I'll grin a bear it. Well, "grin", I imagine it was more like a cock-eyed grimace, as the tides of last night's beer came swashing against my pelvic floor.

I looked up at the screen, 54. You have got to be kidding me. Bing-Bong, 55. Christ.

The musty guy next to me, who had his shirt open, revealing a chest so hairy that I could only just make his tiny, golden crucifix, was methodically swishing a bottle of water about under his chair.

56.

I bet he knew.