Jabbed and Fab

Evening, 

Village Halls are the heart of communities in Britain. They are the places of gatherings and occasion. Donating blood? Village Hall. Kids birthday party? Village Hall. Christenings, Wakes, Voting, Slimming groups, and exercise classes? The good ole' Village Hall. And no matter which one you venture into, be it Scotland, England, or Wales they are all host the same traits and emit the same nostalgic vibes of years gone by.

In years gone by I envisage them being the place to go and dance, somewhere that the whole village would turn out for. The walls would speak of shy boys approaching young girls and asking them to dance whilst older chaperones looked on. The wooden floors would echo this in days gone by of married couples taking their first tentative steps out to the world as they greeted guests and cut the all-important fruit-filled wedding cake covered in rich royal icing and marzipan.

As times changed the village hall would welcome women through the doors not just to host afternoon tea, Tupper-wear parties and book clubs but to vote and make a difference. Villages halls would be a place of gathering to hear news and debate the important things in life. Village halls would have been the place you would go to welcome the young men home from war.

Yes. The village hall is held in a special place of communities hearts up and down this great nation and yesterday was one such day where it again would hold strong and play a part in History. As Mr. Warehouse pulled into the parking space outside the large white marquee he asked if I was nervous. I was. A little. But more than anything I was excited. I was about to make history. I was about to be part of history. Something generations would talk about for decades to come and a moment in time children, maybe even my own children or grandchildren will base school projects and essays on. This is the moment I had my Coronavirus Vaccine. As reported via the BBC, I joined one of the nearly 28-million people in the UK who has now had their first dose of a coronavirus vaccine.

Washing my hands with anti-bac and heading through the sterile tent to another kindly face (albeit half-covered with a facemask) who welcomed me into the facility and asked me to step forward. Taking some details I stood waiting in a short corridor until I was called forward.

Seating myself in front of a young woman, shiny silver rings adorning her fingers, and a flowery spring top on I felt all the ore closer to spring and being free from this hell of social-distancing and restrictions on life. Answering a few short questions I was checked in and handed a leaflet with all the information I required. I was then ushered to a waiting area of six chairs, already filled with five bottoms, all waiting to be seen. I looked around and admired the establishment - The tall beamed ceilings and roof lights, flooding the room with hopeful sunshine and the promise of a better tomorrow. The heaters embedded into the walls just as they were in my primary school, an awful shade of sage green, complete with dusty grids and edges emblazoned with scuff marks from kids running around with trainers on.

I looked at the clock for a fleeting moment as I wondered which self-made cubical I would be called into. Looking around me I could see the statistics from the news. There was only a handful of Black, Asian or minority ethnicities sat waiting for their COVID jab along with me. I think I only saw one out of six of the chairs filled. A worrying statistic was now in front of me and not just some mumbo jumbo on the news. It was plain to see from the young girls register who I had just seen me that there were many a name that was not ticked off and left unhighlighted. I had hoped it was just a glitch or that someone had overslept or forgot, but I feared it was for other reasons. It worried me. Not for my sake but for theirs. What about the families or life they are missing out on by not getting it - And all for fear and fake news.

I was eventually called over by a tall athletic women in her early retirement. A friendly face with short silvered hair and kind eyes. She was wearing a red top with a white shirt underneath and red trousers making her honestly look like something from Cat In The Hat but I liked it. It charmed me. She showed me to another colleague of hers, a tubby Indian man, clearly knowledgeable about medicine (or at least enough to which made me feel comfortable) who welcomed me to the makeshift surgery. Nervous I started answering his questions and I think he could tell I was a little on edge at the sight of the liquid-filled yellow needles sat in a box next to me. I started blathering on about something or other when I noticed his biscuits and asked what his favorite kind was. As he prepared the needle and removed the cap he explained that in actual fact he didn't really like biscuits and yet the ladies kept bringing him cups of tea and biscuits and slices of apple and such every half hour or so.

I thought about that and wondered for a second what his actual job was in normal pre-COVID life. Was he a dentist? Doctor? Plastic surgeon? Maybe he was nothing to do with medicine. Maybe he was a bin man or a lawyer or a pizza maker. Who knows but at that moment I felt a sharp scratch and a cold sensation. Knowing what was happening I looked up. The clock read 12pm on the nose and I appreciated the efficiency of all this.

And that was it. The doctor (or plastic surgeon or bin man or pizza man) asked how I was getting home and if I was driving to which I replied no and that I had my fiance driving me. And with that, he signed off my little card and sent me on my way, although not before sliding the biscuits across the desk and encouraging me to take the little clingfilmed package.

Mrs Cat-In-The-Hat saw me out and escorted me through the foyer to the car park where my faithful Mom-mobile greeted me with its grumbly diesel engine and its handsome driver. The sun shone as we waved our way past all the volunteers and marshalls, driving off into our future of hugging, kissing, and rejoicing in family and friends.

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'Til next time, Love A.Lou x