Fighting imminent pandemic with a Bic biro and Victorian style book-keeping
‘TREASURE the life you have…’ It is that time of year again. The weather is growing colder. The evenings are drawing in earlier. The storms are blowing stormier. And the best indicator of imminent winter is that flu inoculation adverts are running on the radio. Driving along the motorway the other day, I was impressed with the current campaign featuring the sage tones of two mature actors. Both enunciated their words beautifully and each had a slight quaver in the voice to underline their wise-old-bird persona.
They came across as the eminently sensible, far-seeing aunt and uncle that none of us has ever really had. No hogging the Christmas whiskey or setting fire to the duvet with bedtime ciggies for this pair. The message they purveyed was that every citizen over the age of 65 should roll up sleeves and have the injection without delay.
Then came the slogan: ‘ Treasure the life you have…’ and I could not help but murmur the word ‘ left’ to complete the sentence, as I changed down gear to take the Our Town turn-off. ‘ Treasure the life you have left.’ You may not be long for this world but at least you can spare yourself the prospect of a grim death racked with high temperatures and chronic dehydration.
The people who devise these advertisements shy away from shock tactics but maybe they should turn up the heat just a little. Perhaps they might consider giving one of their ads a historic setting. Let’s say Portlaoise. Let’s say it’s the year 1919. Let’s say the action is set in the local hospital. Against a background of screams suggesting patients writhing in the final throes of fatal agony, a doctor speaks.
Doctor: ‘Nurse, I am getting cramp in my hand signing all these death certificates.’
Nurse: ‘I can’t help you there, doc. This Spanish flu is all set to be the biggest killer of all time.’
Voice-over: ‘We can’t cure influenza but at least in the year 2018 we have a vaccine. Go get the flu jab, now!’
That would have listeners sit up and take notice. Punters would soon be queuing up for inoculation at the GP surgeries and pharmacies. Pulling into the town centre, I pondered that, at a mere 62 years of age, I have more life ahead left to treasure than the pensioners targeted in the advert. I resolved to have myself vaccinated without further delay, marching into the local pharmacy.
Yes, there was a queue but it was at the cosmetic desk where a demonstration of the latest eye-liner was causing quite a stir. The vaccination service handled at the prescription counter where my enquiry was fielded by an enthusiastic young man with one of those impossibly floppy lopsided haircuts currently in fashion.
‘I’ll just get the book,’ he said in response to my query, scurrying away to some remote corner. He returned bearing a hefty ledger that would not have looked out of place in the mittened hands of Bob Cratchit as he toiled in the service of Ebenezer Scrooge. He opened the ledger, peered at the page for that day and announced that I would have to come back later in the week. He helpfully confirmed that he had availability (his choice of word, not mine) on Friday and carefully marked me down for the 3.30 p.m. slot.
I had come expecting all the computerised sophistication of a modern public health service geared up to fight a latter day plague. It turned out that the front line of this modern public health service was manned by a courteous foot soldier batting off imminent pandemic with a Bic biro and Victorian style book-keeping.
I had the jab here last year. It should have been the work of a few swift taps on a mouse to tick the boxes I was instead required to mark off by hand on a form. Twelve months on, I still have the same PPS number. Twelve month on from the 2017 visit, I am still not allergic to eggs. Most remarkably, twelve months on, I am still not pregnant.
The whole palaver takes a great deal longer than the act of sticking of a tiny syringe into the customer’s arm. At this rate, it will take until sometime in 2024 to vaccinate the population of Our Town for 2018.
Treasuring the life we have left is not yet routine, it seems.