Around lunchtime today I’ll receive my second COVID jab; a final vaccination which’ll (for the time being) markedly reduce jeopardy of me contracting coronavirus. Despite being extremely grateful at being administered this efficacious potion, courtesy of the National Health Service, how this event impacts my prevailing lifestyle is as yet to be determined.
Clearly, this vaccine will afford me liberty to wander outdoors with minimal risk of catching COVID. However, at this juncture of lockdown easing, many of life’s episodes I miss are still unavailable regardless of antibody status; consequently, an imminent rise in existential brio levels are unlikely.
For instance, situations like attending sporting events, sitting in a coffee house writing, along with enjoying a pint in a reveller laden bar, remain off the agenda as coronavirus lockdown edicts stand.
Yours truly wishes to re-iterate I’m not complaining about being in receipt of this jab, which when fully rolled out to the populace will prove a massive step into re-introducing some sort of normality. I’m merely observing I don’t anticipate, in the short term anyhow, today’s pain in the arm won’t shift the pain in the arse which goes by the moniker of life under coronavirus.
Truth be told, even if entertainment/refreshment outlets were back open, as I’m now mum’s full-time carer, my prevailing lifestyle would remain severely hamstrung, and bereft of the esprit I seek.
Hopefully, as with the first vaccination administered twelve weeks back, I’ll be free of side effects after injection of Pfizer’s antibody. That being said, prose citing minor reactions subsequent of the first jab did flow from Strachan’s pen of whimsy……. This hooey including a ludicrous suggestion that shortly after vaccination I’d a short spell when notions I was Danish comedienne Sandi Toksvig manifested.
I just hope I’ve better fortune than the last occasion yours truly visited this medical establishment. A time GJ Strachan afforded his buddy Mike a lift for a doctor’s appointment. My good deed going punished when scratching an adjacent cars paintwork whilst parking; carelessness costing me £80 in repair bills.
On Thursday, during a break from my carer’s duties, I ventured for a meander within the forestry splendour of Bishop’s Wood, North Yorkshire. Bereft of wolves, who’ve introduced jeopardy to many a fairytale, this trek amongst the timber imparted great serenity; cleansing my soul and dirtying my boots.
Amongst these vast treed areas, sights and sounds of fellow visitors were scarce. Apart from a passing red hooded lass carrying a basket over her forearm, and a guy lugging what looked a body bag and shovel, I saw no one on the venture. A scenario affording me time to self-consciously talk to the trees, seeking life’s meaning from mighty pine and ancient sycamore.
Understandably, the trees didn’t respond, but the calm bestowed in their presence imparted a catharsis which isn’t easily found.
At one point, sitting on a felled log, sampling sun as it filtered through the vast trunks and branches, notions of how forest strolls were a great metaphor for life itself. Times of aesthetic and spiritual beauty, varying sized barriers with shifting challenges, occasions when the future’s unclear and moments of complete loss of at the direction being navigated.
God, I don’t half come out with some pretentious old bollocks, don’t I?!
