Elb-fluenza clinic........

As one who qualifies for the flu jab by dint of having mild asthma and a somewhat dodgy immune system, I walk in to my local surgery’s Walk-In Clinic............... and very nearly walk out again, as the waiting room is positively heaving with pensioners who appear to be clutching raffle tickets. Have I walked into the wrong place and stumbled on the local bingo sect instead? It seems a remarkably social occasion, considering we are all there to be stabbed in the name of staying alive this winter.

Perplexed, I announce my presence to the receptionist, and am promptly issued with my own ticket. It seems there are so many applicants for the position of human dartboard that numbers are being given out to keep the obviously unruly mob in order.... The ratio of bums to seats is not in my favour, and in any case, I would offer up my seat to the next person in, as I am some twenty years younger than the majority of the crowd. So I perch instead on a small wall which encloses the kiddy play area and promptly get goosed by an elderly gent upon whose coat I have parked my not insubstantial posterior.

The pace that the Practise Nurse (not entirely an inspiring title, methinks) is getting through her ample supply of victims suggests a certain cavalier attitude to her patients’ comfort, and I keep expecting to hear someone bellow “ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY!!!!!” but when they exit the torture chamber, everyone seems remarkably chipper. As my number approaches, I am tempted to assume the position of a sprinter in the blocks, one arm bared in readiness as the queue reduces quickly. Number 33 belts past number 32 in premature perambulation, surprising the nurse with her turn of speed for someone so lardily challenged. I am number 34, and as the behemoth exits the nurse’s quarters, I pick up the baton and leg it into the room in order to keep the pace going. Butterflies accompany me into the lair where Nursie flexes a fresh javelin and launches it into my upper arm as I sprint past her, pausing only to confirm my name and address.

“Wait for ten minutes before leaving the surgery!” calls the voodoo nurse cheerily to my retreating back, yanking the needle out of my arm as I tear past. I equally gleefully ignore her, having already taken more than half an hour off work to play Vaccine Bingo; I haven’t time for girlie fainting fits and retreat back to work to lick my wounds........ Figuratively speaking, of course - Multi-skilled I may be, but contortionism isn't among my repertoire.........