Monday, 2 September 2013


Nothing to do with story,
but you just don't often see a silver-washed fritillary
I’m writing this as I sit here in the GP’s waiting room. 

What am I waiting for? 

A vaccinaton. 

On my form from the college nurse, it was expected that I had received BCG (yep, a regular matter during my schooldays, although not any longer);

 two doses of MMR (nope, this was something that I heart-searched about submitting my babies to, not something I had experienced myself - I wrote on the form that I have had the illnesses themselves but not the vaccination);

lastly, Meningitis C (a vaccination not invented in my day - always makes me think of Mel C from the Spice Girls, but I understand it’s far less pleasant).  I had no alibi for this one, so rang up for an appointment.

I haven’t watched any of those gruesome autopsy-based shows, so I don’t know whether you can tell the age of somebody from the vaccination marks on their arm, but you can certainly date them from their vaccination record.

I haven’t had a vaccination for absolutely ages and as I sit here pondering this, I remember that I’m not terribly fond of needles.

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