Joining fellow ‘cohorts’ for date with the jabber

I imagine that very few of my contemporaries see themselves as members of ancient

Roman armed forces but, as was ever the way with politicians seeking (erroneously) to make their pronouncements sound more erudite, they’ve decided to call those of us of vaccination age, ‘cohorts.’

Hang on a sec while I polish my breastplate and sharpen my gladius.

Mind you, I could very well have done with both when I went for my vaccination last Thursday.

I was given an appointment for twelve minutes past twelve.

The venue was a doctor’ surgery just along the way from Marino’s excellent fish and chip shop.

To Mrs B’s horror, the ‘car park’ was filled with a melee of honking cars with

(in quite a few cases) shouting drivers.

We had arrived promptly at twelve twelve.

Snaking back from the entrance was a meandering queue of, roughly socially distanced, aged souls all wearing expressions of tired resignation.

I confess to having taken some advantage of my long-Covid shakiness to jump the queue a little.

Thankfully, no one seemed upset by this.

Once inside, I was sent to sit next to the jabber.

Her chum rolled up my sleeve, the needle was painlessly inserted and I was given a card saying ‘your follow up appointment will be at...’ followed by a blank space.

‘Are you,’ I asked ‘suffering from jabber’s thumb?’

‘Not yet,’ she said, ’but I will by the end of the day.’

And off I went.

Let’s hope that the vaccinations will help repair the government’s inept handling of the pandemic; waiting to see how things are going, then acting in the hope of plugging leaks.

I was given a card saying ‘your follow up appointment will be at...’ followed by a blank space