I slipped into my lightweight summer coat and headed out into the bright sunlight. The sun was warm and the sky blue, with a pleasant breeze rustling the blossom and flicking the shiny fronds of my neighbour’s palm tree.
I was on my way to be vaccinated. At least with the first dose anyway. The village surgery had been offering vaccinations and this time, I qualified.
It was ever such a nice day for a walk up the road. I gave myself a pep talk about how I’d take it all in my stride, not panic about anything, follow the system.
I arrived. The road was crazy - people trying to park, men in high-vis jackets moving cones around, people lining the pavement trying to stay a cautious two metres away from the person in front.
“Here for a vaccine?” asked a steward from behind a floral print mask. I fumbled in my pockets.
“Yeah,” I said, still searching.
“Can I ask you to put a face mask on please sir?” he asked. That, it turned out was exactly what I had forgotten. I went a shade of red while I explained. Thankfully, he was able to sort me out and handed me a disposable mask.
The next part of the system was the queuing. I quickly realised that I hadn’t been around that many people all in their 40s before. It was like waiting for a Nickleback gig sponsored by Waitrose. I looked around the snaking queue that shuffled across the dappled car park. There were dads in board shorts and slip-ons, mums in bright-print leggings; there was quiffed hair and no hair, sensible coats and jeans, together with brilliant white trainers and flip-flops revealing painted toes. I looked at my own choice - grey jeans from 2006, black trainers and a plain turquoise t-shirt. I realised I could not claim anything other than to fit in with my cohort. Though I definitely didn’t feel like I did.
“What’s your name please?” asked the registration lady under her green gazebo. I told her. She wrote me out a slip of paper with my national health number on it, gave me a leaflet which could have been entitled “If This Vaccine Makes You Sick At Least We Told You So”, and instructed me where to queue next. From there, marked out by chalk on the concrete, I followed the socially-distanced trail of 40-somethings into the village surgery, where an appointment with a needle awaited me. I reasoned that a painful jab in the arm would actually be more enjoyable than a Nickleback gig.
“We’re doing Astra Zeneca today,” said someone, helpfully, at the door. That answered that question then.
The actual process, the bit that does the stuff, took a frighteningly short amount of time. I walked in. The nurse asked me which arm I’d like. Still standing, I rolled up my t-shirt; she poked me in the arm with a tiny cold pinch, then strapped a bit of cotton wool to me. I was done. Less than forty seconds. Something new, rightly or wrongly, was in my blood stream. She gave a spiel about what to do if you feel unwell, and then I was back in the sunlight, walking home.
I don’t feel anything different - a little sore in the arm perhaps, but nothing too dramatic. My sister (not the one who thinks it’s all a hoax) sent me a message to joke about Bill Gates now tracking me. My other sister (still not the one who thinks it’s all a hoax) thanked me for believing in science and being an all-round good human. I didn’t message my sister who thinks it’s all a hoax. After all, she thinks it’s all a hoax.
So that was how it went down. A sunny afternoon in a car park and a quick shot in the arm with the least-reprehensible-most-side-effecty vaccine. We’ve come a long way since last Spring haven’t we?
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