To my absolute horror, the nearest Covid test site to Notting Hill is Newport

When Lola gets a cough, Charlotte Cripps is sent on a wild goose chase to get her tested for Covid

(Illustration by Amara May)

It’s alright if your child goes to Eton where they have stockpiled privately purchased Covid tests to use on staff and pupils on their first day of term – and whenever needed – but what about the rest of us? Lola doesn’t have access to the Samba II at her state school – a rapid Covid-19 testing machine that a yummy mummy friend tells me has been installed at her daughter Aurora’s posh boarding school, Benenden, in Kent. 

The elite school has purchased it for £35,000 and it allows everyone in the school to be diagnosed on site with speedy results in 90 minutes. In my case, I spent 90 minutes on hold to 119, just to ask how the hell I get her tested?  Lola has got a cough like every other reception child in the country. But I can’t ignore it – despite the fact she has no temperature. Every single parent is dreading this moment. I have to test her. 

But to my absolute horror, the nearest testing site to Notting Hill with available slots is 137 miles away in Newport. Isn’t that in Wales? That can’t be right.  I get through to an advisor at the coronavirus testing contact centre. He confirms that Newport is the closest to me but now even those slots have gone.  “But what about Bristol airport?" I say in a moment of desperation. “It said there were five slots?”

He tells me to log in again to the NHS site at 8am tomorrow. But when I go on the next morning, there are no options. I know infection numbers are going up, but this is crazy?  OK, I will have to fork out on a private home test kit then. It is the only way. 

Suddenly I’m swamped by a health questionnaire on the screen. The questions never end; it’s like being trapped in a maze with no end in sight

I know that it is possible to get a nurse over once a week to test your entire family privately – as many of the yummy mummies I meet in the local park are doing – but not all of us have private doctors.

Instead, I call up a private health clinic on the Portobello Road – but when I ask how much it will be, the receptionist tells me it is £149 plus a £99 admin fee. “Are you kidding me?” I tell her. “We are in the midst of a pandemic, the NHS can’t help me and my 4-year-old needs to be tested. Can’t you waive the £99 admin fee? What admin do you need to do anyway?” “We need to register you on our system,” she says.  

I put the phone down and find a local chemist in Notting Hill Gate who sell them – for £149.  Great news! I need to get it done as soon as possible so she can return to school on Monday. I’m only doing the test to rule it out as there is nothing worse than being at the school gate, Lola coughs a few times, and all the mums look at you as if you are a silent killer.

I’m not downplaying the reality of Covid but as Lola’s GP told me, by winter, a huge percentage of kids at school will be coughing – so what are we going to do? 

I drive like I’m escaping a wildfire and double park outside the chemist to collect the test box. It has a unique bar code on it that I have to register online – but when I get home to do it, the bar code is invalid. So I get back in the car and drive like the clappers back to the chemist – it takes me 15 minutes. 

I’ve briefed Lola on the procedure – I am going to stick a very long cotton bud-like stick into the back of her throat and twist it for one minute – and she will gag. That means it is working. But if she stays still, I will buy her a Disney Lego palace. 

I dash back into the chemist and exchange the test for another one. The pharmacist suggests I enter the bar code on his computer in the shop to make sure it works this time. 

The bar code goes through successfully but suddenly I’m swamped by a health questionnaire on the screen. The questions never end; it’s like being trapped in a maze with no end in sight. The pharmacist takes over by pressing “skip” to each question, but after 20 minutes, we can’t endure it anymore, so he calls the Covid test company for help.

Oh God, there is a traffic warden outside so I leg it to the car, leaving everything by the pharmacy computer including my wallet and phone.  I tell the traffic warden I am trying to buy a Covid test; he gives me five minutes and leaps away from me. 

An adviser at the testing company has managed to log into my account to get rid of all the health questions so I can press submit. The good news is she offers me a full refund for all the inconvenience.  

I grab the phone off the pharmacist. “Wow thank you. I got a free test after all,” I shout in joy. “I just want my child to go back to school.” 

Oh my God, if this testing fiasco goes on, and I have bribed her with a present she would usually get for Christmas, what am I setting myself up for?

Then the adviser tells me that they don’t test children – it’s over-18s only. I ask, “Does it not work for kids then?” “Oh yes,” she says. “It's just we only test adults.”  

“OK,” I say. “Don’t worry, it’s for me.” What would I do if we all had symptoms? I can’t start buying a test for me, Liberty and the nanny Rosanna, as well, as that would be £447 for three more tests. 

I later find out via Lola’s school WhatApp that Kensington & Chelsea has a mobile testing unit. And that the NHS do nasal swaps for children, not throat ones – so if it works up the nose for kids, why do we all have to gag? 

The test came back the next day negative, which is a relief. So I take Lola and Liberty off to the Disney Store at Westfield as promised to get Lola the Disney Palace. I can hardly breathe with my mask on as I run around the shop, after them. They are  gasping  at all the princess costumes, shouting “Please, mummy please.”

“No Lola, you can only have the Disney Palace,” I tell her. Only! Oh my God, if this testing fiasco goes on, and I have bribed her with a present she would usually get for Christmas, what am I setting myself up for?

“I want that dinoraur,” shouts Liberty. I can’t leave her out. I end up spending £30 on a talking Rex dinosaur action figure just to escape the hell of this shopping trip.

“I want to go for a wee,” says Lola. “I’m hungry,” says Liberty. Then my phone rings. “Hi dad?” He says: “Can you add two pitta breads to the order?” 

We get home and the dinosaur says things like “I can’t take this pressure.” Do I really want her to learn more of these phrases that she spouts off to others given half the chance? Yesterday she said, “Are you really going to throw me in the bin?” She got confused when I threatened to throw her iPad in the dustbin.

“Nobody is going to throw you in the dustbin,” I tell her reassuringly. “I love you too much.” 

It might be chaotic but I’m determined my children will feel secure in themselves. But I can’t keep buying them expensive presents. Where does this all end? There are going to be more tests. We have a whole winter to get through.