Winter Blues?

          I did my bit to help out the NHS last week: I got vaccinated against ‘flu, covid and a new one called RSV, thereby hoping to ease the avalanche of winter infections that crashes into our creaking healthcare system every year. Let’s call it ‘preventive medicine’, which is not only easier to say than ‘preventative medicine’ but is also just as effective. Not that my motivation was entirely selfless, of course. I mean, who wants to be poorly? This is a question to ask anti-vaxxers, the most ardent of whom would not only be stumped by the logic but would also insist (without evidence) that I now have several of the nefarious Bill Gates’ micro-chips implanted in my body.

          The ’flu and covid jabs were given at the same appointment, one in each arm. A friend of mine boasted that he’d had them both in one arm, so that he would be able to sleep on his other side pain-free. But when I asked for the same treatment, it was refused, so I had to sleep on my back, propped with extra pillows so that I didn’t snore. Two days later, I was on my way back up the hill to the clinic for the RSV, when I passed a neighbour who asked me what it was and, in so doing, revealed that, though he is of advanced years, he is not between the ages of 75 and 80, the range that qualifies you for protection against ‘Respiratory Syncytial Virus’. Then, at the top of the hill, I met another neighbour, whom I know to be older, resting on a bench. I asked if he had just had his RSV jab and he said, “No, I’m too old. Not worth saving, I suppose.” I patted him on the shoulder and left him sitting there, disconsolate.

          With both my arms being sore from the previous visit, I asked the nurse whether I should come back another day for this third jab. But she was unsympathetic and dissuaded me with a tale of how inconvenient it would be to make another appointment. Then, before I knew it, she stuck the needle in and dismissed me with a wry, “There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

          Other preparations for winter include an underwear upgrade. When there was a very brief cold snap, back in September, I made a beeline for M&S, where they stock some comfy-looking, long-sleeved, thermal vests. I splashed out on a couple in light blue (which, I fancy, rather suits me) but, by the time I had got them out of the packaging, the temperature had shot back up to 20 degrees, thereby rendering them temporarily redundant. I’m not one to complain about the weather – I like its variability – but I was sort of looking forward to the winter and the smug feeling of having planned to be snug when squaring up to its harsh embrace.

          Now I wait. In fact, the situation seems to have regressed. We spent the last couple of days at Treyarnon Bay, in Cornwall, where the sun shone down on us and the handful of off-season holidaymakers frolicked in the waves that rolled endlessly onto the sandy beach. It was like a ghostly iteration of summer, without the hordes of visitors and the ensuing vehicular chaos. Even the lady running the ice cream hut reopened for business after having shut up shop some weeks earlier. How fortunate we were to visit a picturesque Cornish resort under such ideal conditions. And yet…

          Now, back at home and with no sign of wintry conditions arriving, I console myself with the cost-saving of not having to heat the flat in these next few days, after which we will embark on the ferry to Spain for three weeks. Surely, there will be a winter to look forward to on our return.