Like Frodo in Lord of the Rings, I have embarked on a seemingly impossible quest: I would like to get a flu jab.
A few weeks ago, the government trumpeted its plan to roll out mass flu vaccinations.
A small study had indicated that having flu and Covid-19 at the same time significantly increases your chances of dying. Also, they don’t want the NHS overwhelmed with flu patients at the same time as a tsunami of corona cases.
Therefore, they have acquired 30 million doses of flu vaccine. In theory, if you are over 50, you are eligible for a free flu jab this year. But can I actually get one? A friend aged 62 reported that she’d tried three chemists and all of them were out of vaccine and were operating a waiting list. My local Boots has suspended booking altogether “due to unprecedented demand”.
Over the past five years, different doctors at the group practice I attend have had varying views on my eligibility. One said, “Yes, you’ve had a kidney removed — you’re more vulnerable — of course you should have a flu jab”. The following year, another said, “Oh, one kidney? That’s nothing. You can’t have the jab.” A third doctor told me that, in practice, they always have more vaccine than gets used so that if I wait until later in the season, I should always be able to have it. So that’s what I’ve done.
Then, while walking to our synagogue (belatedly returning the High Holy Days machzorim I had borrowed for the Zoom services) past the surgery, I notice what seems to be a succah right on the street, set back from the pavement. It’s well past Succot so I take a closer look. It’s a blue tent, open at the front, bearing the sign “Flu Clinic”. Inside is a masked member of staff I recognise from our surgery, holding a clipboard.
I put on my own mask and approach. I start to explain that I attend the practice and am over 50 when she says, brusquely, “You can’t just sign up, you know” — as if I’m sneakily trying to scrounge benefits I’m not entitled to.
“No, of course,” I say, while thinking, actually, why not? “Is there someone I could ask?”
She points towards the surgery.
“Oh, I didn’t realise it was open?” My husband had one Zoom video consultation with a doctor when he had an insect bite that went septic, but at one point the surgery door was plastered with notices telling people it was closed and basically to sod off.
I enter the surgery to be confronted by a riot of yellow and black hazard warning tape. It’s as if a seven-year-old kid on a sugar high has been let loose and told to go wild with the stuff. There are yellow and black Xs to indicate which seats on the long banquettes against the walls should not be used. Huge arrows on the floor mark out a one-way system.
I explain to the receptionist — now shielded behind a tall, clear screen — that I am over 50 and would like a flu jab. He says I can have a phone appointment in nearly two weeks’ time when a nurse will call me “to discuss it”. Two weeks’ wait just for a phone call to discuss whether or not I can have the jab.
Eventually, the day dawns and the nurse calls. God be praised — she’s a human being.
‘‘Yes — one kidney — you should have it,” she says. “The computer algorithm isn’t saying you can have one… but I can overrule it… there we go! When can you come in? I have a slot in half an hour.”
I tug on my boots and jacket and call out to my son that I’ve just been offered a flu jab so am walking to the surgery.
“Enjoy!” he says. Yes, he’s joking, but the awful thing is there’s a small bit of me that is indeed slightly excited — an outing! — as my life is currently so devoid of interest. All I do is work or loaf at home, go for walks, and occasionally go out for a meal with husband and son.
At the surgery, usually the seats in the waiting area are set out in two rows, but now they have been herded together into the centre of the room. Adopting an over-zealous belt-and-braces approach, there are multiple signs stating: PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON THESE CHAIRS. Unnecessary, because the chairs have been encircled, some might say even bound up as if part of an unexpected S & M scenario involving a lot of furniture — with yet more hazard tape, which one would have to vault over to get to the chairs. As they are corralled in the middle of the room, they also look like a weird nightmare layout for a children’s party game of musical chairs.
I have my jab and a nice chat with the nurse, packing in as many subjects as possible because I really don’t get out enough and relish conversation with a new person. In five minutes, we manage to cover: the risk of type two diabetes, weight loss, my blood sugar levels (fine, thank you), when my next blood test should be… and, of course, the weather.
I walk back with a spring in my step. Yes, my life is so devoid of stimulation that I have indeed enjoyed having a flu jab. Quest accomplished. Call me Frodo.
Claire Calman’s fifth novel, Growing Up for Beginners, is out now.
