BOOSTER

I don’t mind telling you, I got my booster today. In Argos.

Well, the place that used to be Argos. It’s now a clinical vaccination centre: white painted walls, makeshift cubicles, blue plastic chairs, polished floor. I was reflecting on the irony of it: the last Saturday before Christmas, after all my pining for the past, there I was literally queuing in Argos, where in years gone by, I’d have been queuing by the collection points for prezzies of old.

I think I’ve been desensitised. Being there reminded me how serious this all is, how otherworldly, how apocalyptic. I’ve rarely been closer to the sceptics. 

The lady at the first checkpoint took my name and gave me a round, pink sticker, which I carefully peeled and stuck to my jacket. Then a man in a yellow jacket gave me firm directions on which arrows to follow through Former Argos as well as another sticker with a time printed on it. Before long I was shepherded into the next queue, to a third person who wanted to know my name and date of birth, and eventually to a cubicle where a nurse in blue beckoned me towards him.

“And how are you feeling?” he asked, casually, carefully, as I sat down, “All good today?”

“Yup,” said I. He was examining a syringe, in that way that only medical professionals do. I tried not to look at the syringe. He kept talking very deliberately.

“Any plans for the evening?”

“No, not really, just a quiet oooh…” I composed myself as the needle bit me. “Just a quiet one at home, I think.”

It was done. I was boosted with Moderna, complementing the two shots of Astra Zeneca I had had earlier in the year. Depending on your point of view, I was either: as protected from Covid as I could possibly be; a guinea pig for a still untested medical treatment, or a gullible fool with nanotechnology swimming through my blood stream.

I’m sorry Argos has gone. I had to wait on those blue plastic chairs, just in case I had an allergic reaction. Back in the old days you’d wait on bucket seats for your collection to be ready. The ticket numbers would scroll by, on coloured TV screens hanging from the ceiling tiles.

“Order number thirty seven… to your collection point please,” she'd say. I remember the intonation; I mean, who doesn't?

Those same ceiling tiles. I leaned back in the chair. I had liked Argos of course. It was there for my childhood and it was there in my teens, my twenties, and even my thirties. Whichever side of the debate you’re on: whether you’re right behind Covid passports or you think Bill Gates is somehow conditioning the world, you’ve got to admit, the world is definitely in a worse place than it was.

How will it be better? How can we make it better? I’m not sure exactly, other than doing the kind things at the end of our fingertips. To be honest, sometimes that’s all I feel I can carry responsibility for - the immediate things in front of me, the words I use to describe people, the beautiful moments when eyes lock over face masks and a smile wrinkles into crows feet. Then there's the niceness of reacting well, or finding out something charming or quirky about someone you don't know. Perhaps every interaction is an opportunity to be what we Christians sometimes call ‘a blessing’. If that is all I’ve got, I really want to do it well.

The clock ticked over to fifteen minutes. I threw my coat on over my shoulders and calmly left old Argos behind.