On being vaccinated

 Last Thursday, 18 March, I had the first of my two Covid-19 vaccination jabs. I had been quite surprised when I received a call-up text message from my local GP surgery on 11 March, as over 50s had not yet been advertised as being eligible.

The invitation

 I was delighted by this, and promptly booked my slot. Salisbury Cathedral, eh?  This sounded wonderful, but I imagined that it wouldn't, surely, be in the cathedral itself but in ancillary building, probably a storage unit.

In the ensuing period before 18 March, lots of European politicians seemed to be casting doubt on the safety and efficacy of the Oxford AstraZeneca vaccine, but on zero clinical evidence. A political slap to Brexit Britain? Who knows. But I was hoping I'd get the AZ jab as a small token of defiance against this self-harming mumbo-jumbo rhetoric.

Thursday morning, and I arrived in Salisbury in good time. Travelling to the medieval city, especially on a working day, felt like a treat in its own right. I approached the cathedral close, and found a 'vaccination this way' sign. A left turn through a high wooden gate, and I was walking through the stonemasons' yard.

Lots of interesting bits and bobs

Thirteenth century gargoyle meets twenty-first century wheelie bin

And then through a side door and into the cloisters, where a hearty lady, wrapped up against the cold, invited me to join the long queue which was snaking around the cloisters.

Queuing around the cloisters

 This is going to take forever, I thought, but the socially-distanced line kept shuffling forwards and it can only have been ten or fifteen minutes. I was loving the experience of it and thrilled to be part of something historic in a setting... well, so historic. The queue was calm, orderly and silent. I contemplated Dunkirk and felt very proud to be British.

Before long I was in the main body of the cathedral, where there were about twenty vaccination booths set up. A lady asked for my details, and I gazed around the place, loving it all. But the best part was the organ music. The chords were familiar. What was it? It was the theme tune to Star Wars! I was thrilled by the exuberant, imaginative big-heartedness of church and state coming together to make something as functiuonally prosaic as an injection so memorable and vital.

The jab zone

A brief soundbite

I was called to my booth where a lady asked me a few questions and requsted that I expose my left upper arm. I took off my jacket and then my sweater, but as I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt I could still only just reveal the target spot. For a moment I thought I'd have to take my shirt off too, but luckily no need, and then it dawned on my I was still wearing my woolly hat, in a cathedral for heaven's sake. I felt a proper idiot, but what I didn't feel was the injection... I was a bit bemused when I was given my post-jab leaflet (and yes I'd had the AstraZeneca jab; take that, Macron and Merkel!) and warned to expect some mild side-effects. Had she missed, I wondered? She hadn't, of course. I felt gratifyingly ropey that evening and a bit off-colour on Friday, with a tender arm throughout the weekend.

Walking back to the car, I felt moved, humbled and uplifted by the experience. Almost a year after this whole wretched business had properly started, I had been invited to take my place in the national queue to be inoculated, a place determined by need and not by money or influence. The sheer scale of the effort and the kindness and good humour in which I'd received my jab - not to mention the glory of the venue - had been really inspiring. I'm full of gratitude.