The much-heralded official approval of the Oxford/Astra-Zeneca Covid-19 vaccine was announced today, and we were treated to the spectacle of that sanctimonious prat Matt Hancock all over our TV screens crowing about it. Don't get me wrong, I hope for all our sakes it proves effective in stemming what looks like it's fast becoming an uncontrollable tide of infection threatening to swamp us all. But given his abysmal track record of promising things he can't deliver, I can't help feeling that if it does prove to be the answer to all our prayers, it'll be in spite of his efforts rather than because of them. Later on, our illustrious PM BoJo in a televised press conference did a passable imitation of a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights, trying to sell everyone the idea of an extended Tier 4 pseudo-lockdown as a necessary evil (And don't even think of having a New Year party!). It was left to the ever-sensible Jonathan Van-Tam to save the day in his inimitable 'tell it like it is' style - the only person who actually gives you the impression that he knows what he's talking about and isn't afraid to say it in words everyone can understand.
I have slightly more than a passing interest in all this, as for the last five or six months I've been suffering from what turned out to be a leg ulcer. I know all about these (well, quite a bit, anyway) because Carol had developed some extensive ones on both legs and for a good couple of years I used to have the task of changing her dressings for her and re-bandaging them after she got cheesed off with the District Nurses and told them she wanted me to take over the job. She put her foot down over this, and they were not happy bunnies! Anyway, mine appeared following the development of some hard skin scales which started itching and then cracking apart and secreting lymph fluid.
At first I did nothing, but it was becoming both unsightly and painful so I went to the walk-in centre where a very nice doctor told me it was infected and gave me a course of antibiotics. However a couple of friends who'd seen it suggested to me that I really ought to get it properly treated. This proved easier said than done, given Carol's condition at the time, and I cancelled an appointment and possible two because I felt I couldn't leave her. However, I bit the bullet after she died and arranged with our GP to get the Practice Nurse to have a proper look at it. She's one of the old-school who don't really go in much for the concept of bedside manner: she'd make a good School Nurse if they still have such things. If I could've gone somewhere else, I would have done: I went every week, but had no confidence in her knowledge or ability: she kept changing the dressing type without telling me why and progress was slow. One of my friends even advised me to ask for a referral for a second opinion.
However, it did eventually start to respond, and it's now shrunk to not much more than just a small epientre - the size of something you put an elastoplast on. After washing it, applying emollient and a new dressing myself this morning, I emailed the surgery telling them that I felt it made no sense to expose myself to the risk of catching the virus by making a journey that wasn't essential and that if the pressure on the NHS was half as bad as it's being made out to be, I was sure they'd appreciate having the appointment time for another patient who needs it more than I do. So I've basically signed myself off. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed it doesn't come back and bite me!
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