I feel a little bit like Basil Fawlty when he had a rare win off that horse. For once in my life, I’m ahead of where I thought I’d be. I know it won’t last long but, just for now, I’m one-up in the game and loving it. I want to snatch my feeling away from anyone who tries to grab it.
“No,” I say, as I clutch it protectively to
my heart, “This is mine.”
I never imagined that I’d be this far on by now. Perhaps it’s because I often think that I am younger than I actually am. I had it firmly in my head that the vaccine programme wouldn’t get to folk like me until sometime in late June or early July. Ireland, being a small country, has not been as quick to get loads of vaccines as our neighbours and friends have. So, I was pleased to see the process gain some momentum and was happy to wait my turn. Then, suddenly, two weeks ago, it was my turn to register and three days later I had my date.
Bit One
- Jab
“Name?” The
man in the high vis had a clipboard and was not afraid to use it. I told him my name.
He checked
his sheet for a long time.
“You’re the
last today,” he said. I was ten minutes early.
“Really?” I
replied, deciding not to engage with him as to why it took him so bloody long
to find me on his sheet if I was the only one left. I tipped him a wave, drove
in, and parked up.
They were
busy digging up the football pitch outside the hotel. I think they were making
a car park out of it. It’s probably a useful metaphor for something-or-other
but at the time I couldn’t be arsed to pursue it. Leave that one to Joni. I was
here for one thing and one thing only.
Just
because I was the last, I wasn’t alone. There was a queue in front of me to
register and another queue beyond that. There were people behind me too,
volunteers and car parking people who were getting their own jab. After the
queue, which was speedy, I had to sit for a while in a little cubicle with two
nice vaccinator women. They explained that, because it was near the end of the
day, they were preparing the vials slower so that none would go to waste. That
was fine with me. I was also formally asked if I was happy to be given the
vaccine and they smiled when I said, without guile, that I was absolutely
delighted. West of Ireland people tend to take their jabs and go home, I reckon.
They don’t always express high emotion about it.
I’m left-handed
so I got it in the right. I’ve always tried to give blood, when I’m allowed to, so
I’m okay with needles, I think. I haven’t had too many, compared to other
people I know and love. I touch wood after typing that, though I’m not in any
way superstitious. Hang on while I… wave at that magpie… there!
The
fifteen-minute sit-and-wait after the vaccine turned into a game of musical
chairs because the rapidly emptying area was having its seating rearranged. I
turned my chair one way to mimic what the staff were doing with all the other
chairs and then I turned it back again when they changed their minds. It helped
to pass the time.
And then I
was part-one vaccinated. I felt a little high. I felt other things too, harder
to describe. I felt sort of socially responsible if that makes sense. I felt
less eased that I was now less likely to get the virus but much, much happier
that I was doing my bit to help wipe out the darned thing. I felt like a brick
in a big house that was trying hard to stay structurally strong and stable so
that whole structure didn’t topple over.
I also felt
prepared to feel a bit sick. I bought some Panadol and put them on the kitchen table
where I could dive for them quickly. I didn’t get sick though, not even a sore arm.
What I did get was grumpy. I was an exceptionally grumpy fecker for a few days.
I actually think I still am. In the chipper last night, a woman was standing at
the counter and waiting for her order that patently wasn’t ready yet. She was
blocking my socially distant access to my own dinner. I shot her such a poisoned
look that she fell back two full paces and apologised profusely. It seems I
wasn’t just made grumpy by the vaccine; I was gifted temporary grumpy
superpowers.
Better
watch out, people.
Bit Two
- Haircut
The next day
was haircut day. I was a teenager in the decade when it was understood to be a
kindness to the hairdresser to permit him to wash your hair. The narrative
seemed to be that it provided a clean and pliable geography upon which the
hair person could do their work. A part of me thinks it was a marketing ploy.
Whatever it was, it’s a habit I’ve continued, waving the shampoo forward
whenever I arrive. Even though a part of me thinks it’s a bit demeaning to all
concerned.
Not in
Covid Times though. Hairdressing needs to be a sparse and uncomplicated thing,
in my view at least. So, I rolled up on Tuesday with a five-month head of hair
that had been grossly over-washed. It was feather light, wispy, and buzzing
with static electricity from the bottle of conditioner I had stolen from my
wife.
Kieran the
barber seemed relieved when I confirmed that I wanted ‘the usual’. I think
people are coming back after months of follicle growth with notions of a new
image and a photo of Jim Morrison in their back pocket. Not me. I just wanted a
‘Maxine Nightingale’; to get right back to where we started from.
If
receiving the vaccine was transformative, getting the haircut was ten times more
so. I left something quite murky and ill-fitting on the tiled barbershop floor, along with all that surprisingly grey hair. I caught sight of myself in a shop
window as I walked back to work and, yes, I looked like a prat just like I
always do. But it was a well-groomed prat. I could show a good face to world
again and try to get on with things, carefully but well.
Reading
back on this, I bet your own impressions of these things won't be vastly different from
my own. There’s not much here that you won’t have lived yourself and felt yourself.
But this is my diary, of sorts, and as your man Hamlet said, “Meet it is I set
it down.”
Someday, in
years to come, somebody might read over all these million words of mine and
say, “Yeah, so bloody what?”
And that
kind of makes it all worthwhile.
Grumpy, see?
1 comment:
I've also had my first jab but that was two months ago and I'm nervously awaiting my second. Carrie’s just had her second. Hit her a bit harder than the first which she shrugged off. Me, delicate wee flower that I am, had a fever and everything after my first shot so I'm not looking forward to what's going to follow my second. It won't stop me but I worry.
The only time I've had a "usual" was when I worked in Royston. I used to get the bus into town and visit the Greggs on the corner of George Square where, while they were in season, I would buy two hot cross buns and eat them as I walked down Duke Street (coincidentally the street I was born on). Wonderful hot cross buns. Best in my life until they changed the damn recipe. Anyway after a bit they got used to me and I finally got to utter those magic words: "Usual, please." Never been one for bars and even when I did drink I never had a usual, Mostly I drank lager and lime but I went through phases. Haven’t been for a drink in probably twenty years. If Carrie has a new flavoured vodka I'll have a shot but that's me. Probably twenty years since I last visited a barber too.
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