January 25th 2021
I’ve just got my first vaccine. Ever since I got the text from the GP last week inviting me to book an appointment, I’ve been counting down the days til today.
At just before 1:30 I park up, not at the doctor’s or the hospital, but in a corner of Tesco car park. The clinic is next door at St Helens Rugby League stadium. I’m puzzled as to why, as I walk across in a howling, bitterly cold northerly wind, which forces the breath back into me.
As I get nearer the red and grey hulk I see “St Helens RFC, Club of Legends since 1873” on the panels of the stadium. Underneath there’s a white canopy with a sign that reads “GP Vaccination Services”. When this place was built 9 years ago who would’ve have imagined this? One of the club’s stewards gives me a mask as I join the queue. It all seems quite good humoured and friendly and fortunately we don’t have to wait too long outside.
Inside I give my name at a small desk just inside the entrance. It’s staffed by three women, probably in their early 50s wearing a uniform and the badge of a GP surgery across town. I’m told to wait in a small corridor outside some double doors and as I stand there, as if waiting in the wings, there’s a hum of noise and activity coming out of a function room that’s been turned into a clinic, with tables and booths staffed by nurses. I’m called in by a volunteer and sit on a blue plastic chair. Now I know why it’s being held here rather than a GP surgery; there must be over 60 people in this room. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time. Hearing people talk about the usual St Helens topics: the buses, the weather, the rugby team. I’ve seen more people in a minute than I have done in the past 9 months of shielding.
I notice that apart from a few other people, I’m the youngest in there by a mile; everyone else is well into their 70s and 80s, who generally look in poor health. For a second I feel like an imposter and I can sense a few people looking at me, perhaps wondering why this seemingly fit and healthy lad has been pushed forward for a vaccine. I say a silent thank you to my GP who must’ve bumped me up the list.
I’m called up to a desk with a man and a woman sat behind it. She check my details on a laptop. It’s all done quickly and efficiently.
“You’ll be getting Pfizer today” the man says, in a Scottish accent I can’t quite place.
As I go to roll my sleeve up I say “Do you mind if I take a photo?”
“You’ll have to ask my agent” he replies. I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not. So I take it anyway.
As I sit in another part of the room, waiting to see if there’s any side-effects, I hear some more older people coming in, saying to the volunteers, ”Is it the Oxford one? We don’t want Pifzer!” This happens quite a few times. Why this is I’m not sure. Have they read that the Astra Zeneca one is better? Or is it because it’s British? Me, I’d have had anything I was that desperate.
As I sit here in the car writing this, the pale winter sun glinting off the trolleys in this enormous car park built for a better future than the one that’s arrived, I feel relieved. Is this the beginning of the end of my isolation? I can’t be sure. But at least I have some protection now, and I’ve got a bit of hope back. Perhaps that’s the best medicine.