It began as such a professional viewing. Me, the polished estate agent in my smart dress and towering heels, showing a client the "outstanding outdoor space"—that ridiculous balcony with the faulty lock. I remember distinctly warning him: "Do be careful not to let that door click shut behind us." He did it anyway. That terrible, final click. At first, I tried to brush it off with my best telephone voice, assuring him it was a minor inconvenience. I borrowed his mobile to ring my office, explaining calmly that we were locked out and could someone please bring the spare key? They were going to take a while. I didn't have a 'while!' I needed to pee. I could manage that, surely. I was a grown woman, professional, composed. Then my bladder screamed. I'd been holding it since the last property, rushing between appointments with nothing but a motorway coffee to keep me company. Standing there in the open air, the urge became overwhelming. I tried to maintain my dignity—crossing my ankles, making small talk —but the desperation was physical. I found myself doing that frantic pee dance, squirming against the railing, my heels clicking against the concrete as I shifted my weight, hands pressed between my legs, absolutely frantic. They were taking forever. The pressure was agonising. I jiggled the handle frantically, my professional composure shattering as I felt the first leak. "No, no, no," I whimpered, trying to hold it, dancing desperately in front of him like a silly girl. It was no use. The floodgates opened. I stood there, frozen in humiliation, as hot pee cascaded down my bare legs, soaking my knickers, streaming into my heels, forming a shameful puddle on the balcony floor right there in front of my client. The relief was heavenly; the embarrassment was hellish. And that was the exact moment my colleague finally swung the door open.