Injection of humour: Sophia Money-Coutts, vaccine volunteer
I just welled up at the solemnity and awe of what I was seeing during my first shift as a vaccine steward
Of all the places I could have been sent for my first shift as a vaccine steward, it seemed almost absurdly fortunate that I was called up to The Science Museum. On Tuesday night, I laid out my Royal Voluntary Service hi-vis vest, packed a rucksack with a water bottle and an extra jumper and set my alarm for 6am, excited as a Land Girl before her first day’s milking.
I duly reported to the wrong door the following morning and had to be helped by another volunteer, a bouncy chap called Jez who ushered me into the museum and through the Energy Hall, full of steam engines but eerily devoid of hollering schoolchildren. I don’t want to sound like a government stooge but that was the first time I welled up, moved by the solemnity and a sense of awe at the scale of this operation.
Upstairs in the staff area, various bodies in various coloured T-shirts mingled while we were briefed (nurses in yellow; St John’s Ambulance stewards in green; vaccinators in blue; volunteers in hi-vis neon). My attention was momentarily distracted by the sight of two large fridges and a box of crisps in one corner but I soon craned it back to our instructions – “Please make sure everyone knows they’re getting AstraZeneca today” – before we were dispersed to our posts.
My mother, sensible to my capabilities, had mused beforehand that I might be wiping down clipboards or pens. Actually, I was placed in a large hall, outside a long line of 12 vaccination pods in order to keep the flow of punters moving. The doors opened at 8.30am and my eyes immediately welled up again (I would have been terrible in the war) as people started flooding in. Declaring oneself proud to be British can, these days, earn you a dirty look, as if you’ve admitted that you fancy Tommy Robinson and want to marry the Union Jack. I don’t want either of those things, but
I was bursting with pride to be there: the queue was orderly; people’s eyes pinched in wide smiles over their masks; there was a constant, grateful ring of “thank you” as booths emptied and the next patient stepped in. “Please come into our party pod,” said one of the St John’s Ambulance lot, beaming, as he ushered each person in. It felt like the very best of human nature was venturing out again after months of being shut away.
Male and female approaches to vaccination might be of interest to David Attenborough if he ever tires of puffins. Women demurely pulled back their collars to reveal a small patch of upper arm; men ripped off their shirts as if auditioning for Tarzan. “Sometimes they start unbuckling their trousers too,” a more experienced volunteer warned me. I saw more male flesh in six hours than I have in a year and I think that’s probably me done now for another year or so. Still, after the past 12 months, the sight of nurses bending towards uncovered arms up and down the line of booths, this sense of humanity, was overwhelming. Another weep? Why not. I pinched my mask either side of my nose: it’s a good job they can double as tissues.
I’m off to a shift in Croydon this week which is perhaps slightly less glamorous than The Science Museum, but no less exciting. The effort that’s going into this is extraordinary. Well done, all.