Jabs And Jibes

I’ve had THE jab. Jabs and jibes were the theme of the day.

The mysteries of temporary signage that declare where to go, remained just that, a mystery. It was a good job the Physio Witch had provided fulsome direction of how to access a community hall that was at the far end of a Sainsbury’s car park, behind a doctor’s surgery with a walkway to it, so grand, it rivalled the spot where I keep the ever-expanding number of council issued wheelie bins. I won’t dwell on that here.

The sun was low in the sky and as I ambled about outside Sainsburys, I inadvertently ambled into Sainsburys through the “exit only” door. I know this because someone told me so. A quick circuit of the special offers and I left by the route by which I had entered, pacing about between temporary arrows that directed me back and forth across the car park. Eventually the penny dropped. It must be where no arrow dared to go.

I’m not surprised that arrows didn’t dare to head for the Covid vaccination Centre. The arrows might not have been up to the job, but one marshal had an interesting take on giving directions and could give any arrow a good run for its money.
“Madam,” a small florescent man said authoritatively. “I need you to go left.” So, I went left.

I’ve never come off best when faced with a wall. This was no different. “Not there,” he continued. “Obviously when I said go left, I was indicating you should bare left.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m baring left, now where?”
“Listen to me. Listen to me. I said bare left.”
“I’m baring left.”
“I’m trying to help you. I’m indicating which way to go. Look at me.”
“it’s no good indicating. I have no idea what you’re doing,” I snipped waving the cane about a bit.
“I’m trying to be helpful. You’re not listening to what I’m telling you.”
I lost it. “You’re not making any sense. Just describe where I need to go.”
He jabbed his finger in my face. “Listen. I’m trying to help you but you’re not listening.” Then he took hold of my arm. I didn’t budge.

Exasperation is usually born of a loss of control. “Tell me then, just tell me. I’m trying to be helpful but you’re not listening. What do you want me to do?” Yep, he was exasperated.
“I’ll just follow you.”
“Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place. You don’t listen.”
We both took a breath.
“Mask over your nose,” he instructed.
“It is over my nose.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said, adjusting my mask so that my already steamy world fogged over completely. Not much chance of following him now.

I can’t pretend there was much to laugh about in this nasty little exchange.

“Do you have any allergies?” said the nice young man in scrubs.
“Brazil nuts,” I said.
“And what happens if you eat a Brazil nut?”
“My throat swells up and I can’t breathe.”
“Do you carry an EpiPen?”
“No. I just don’t eat Brazil nuts.”
“So not that serious then.”
I suppose these matters are all relative. It depends on your view of asphyxiation.

My view of asphyxiation is that of the many ways that one can die unable to breath I wouldn’t pick any of them. It’s why I’ve always made a point of avoiding arrest. It’s the reason I don’t eat Brazil nuts. It’s the reason that I went for THE jab and let uninvited rudeness and touching go.

Building my metaphorical immunity has kept me healthy all these years and so will THE jab.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.