Vaccinator fun with my deltoids!

“Good afternoon. I am your vaccinator, today."

I frowned. Vaccinator? That's a new word for me.

Now normally I like new buzz words or expressions , especially COVID ones. They always make me smile. I coped with asymptomatic, superspreader, bubble, self-isolation, chains-of-transmission, corona-coasters, toilet roll economy, kicking numerous cans down numerous roads, unsocial distancing and circuit-breakers without breaking sweat - sorry. But VACCINATOR - that sounded a little too close to Terminator, for my liking.

"Right, let's get started. Did you have your first injection in your right or left deltoid?”

Now, I’m not easily confused, at least I like to think so, but, as I stood in a tight little room in Orpington’s Wellbeing Centre, I felt slightly at odds with the world. Vaccinators and now deltoids. Not happy.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon and I’m getting my second jab.

OK... let’s go back in time a bit. 3 months to be exact. February.

My first jekky was in Bromley at a place which could have been a church, primary school or bog-standard brick council hall which smelt of furniture polish, old people and toilet soap. It also had a feel of evening 'pilates' or kiddy judo about it . It was one of those multi-purpose halls which are totally empty most of the time but always have stacks of chairs at one end for the time when there's an election or talk by someone on Jane Austen to MacMillan nurses. I hope you get the picture.

I was at the main door just in front of a cohort of Zimmers.

“Can I have your name, sir?”

“Certainly.”

Long pause.

“Well, what is it?”

I was not in a very good mood back in February. It was cold, windy, grey, drizzling and generally quite nasty. And I had just been in a queue with half of Bromley’s over 120 year olds. I was the only one there without a Zimmer frame, stick or chair. Yes, chair. Several had brought their own chairs for the outside queue. Not armchairs I should quickly say, but near as damn it. I stood there feeling like a young whippersnapper - someone who really should not have been there, an age interloper - a man without a walking aid.

“LILEY (pronounced Lie-Lee). Adrian Michael,” I mumbled to a man with a clipboard at the door.

“Ah, Mr Lilllllley,” he repeated.

“No, Liley,” I corrected, stubbornly. Bloody-mindedness was taking over, big-time.

He was probably older than me, with thinning white hair and a look of retired head teacher about him. I expected a stern reprimand and a detention at 3.45.

“Use the hand sanitiser, please,” he said, looking at my hands and then waving at a nearby table, distastefully. “Go inside and sit on a GREEN chair, Mr Lillllley. You will be called…”

Mr Lillllllllley entered the realm of the NHS and found a chair – a red one. And was told to relocate immediately. Red ones were for post-vaccinatees. Another new word.

A short five minutes passed and…

“Mr. Lilllley,” trilled a woman, leaning into the room, all togged out in a hazmat suit.

I was tempted to remain, unmoved with name intact, until they got it right, but that would have been silly.

I got up and followed the woman to a small room where a woman with a load of needles sat.

“Left or right?” asked the woman, brusquely.

“Left,” I replied, rolling a sleeve up.

“Why me?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why me, today? Aren’t I too young?”

“You’re down here as an essential worker.”

Now, that did stop me in my tracks. I’ve never been called that before, but I have to say that I was slightly pleased. For the first time that day, a warmth spread through me.

“I didn’t know that marketing people were essential to the running of the country,” I ventured, a little unwisely.

The nurse just stared at me in one of those tired, heard-it-all-before and fed up ways. She then looked over my shoulder at a colleague in another little booth, readied her javelin and said wearily: “Just a little prick.”

That was then.

And now, the little prick was getting his second jab in Orpington.

“Left deltoid,” I said, sounding as if I knew my stuff. “Done many today?” I asked, attempting a little chat.

“Too many.”

“Ah.”

“You allergic to anything?”

“Cobalt,” I replied, honestly.

And yes, that’s true.

I had a test about a hundred years ago and the doc told me then that I should avoid cobalt in all its forms. Little Adrian was slightly confused, but the doc explained that we’re all allergic to something, like Superman with kryptonite. That cheered me up a bit. He then told me to avoid wearing anything leather or playing snooker or table football (apparently, cobalt is used to ‘cure’ leather and green baize). I wasn’t feeling cheerful anymore. I remember the tears as I threw away my expensive and very cool leather watch strap and trouser belt… and (this was the worst part) put my Subbuteo table into the attic.

“So, nothing important, then,” said the nurse and readied her needle.

“Nothing important,” I repeated, realising that a chat about cobalt was not going to happen.

“Did you feel all right after the first one?”

“Yes,” I replied, enthusiastically. “In fact, I’ve never felt better. Afterwards, I did the heavy shopping, walked three miles home, mowed the lawn, rotated the tyres and…”

“So, no adverse after-effects?”

“No. Can I have one every week, please?”

There was a long pause, then my vaccinator stared balefully over my shoulder at the woman in the hazmat suit.

“Just a…”