24 Sep Shopping In Lockdown

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 27.9.21


I was window shopping online in Lockdown when a realisation hit me just before I clicked “add to cart”. It wasn’t the pretty dress that I wanted to buy. (Though yes, that too – roses, 1950s style, what’s not to love?) The thing I really wanted delivered to my door was (ta da!) the opportunity to go out somewhere wonderful and be in a room where that dress belonged.

Frocking up is one of my very favourite things. Just thinking about what I might wear is calming – if I can’t sleep at night because I have a job the next day that scares me, one of the best ways to settle me down is to plan what I might wear for it.

Indeed, any time a doctor has told me I need to be admitted to hospital for a procedure, my first response is to go out and buy fancy new pyjamas. And yes, this is a diversionary tactic not a million miles from denial, but also it works a treat. I can be relatively sangfroid right up until the anaesthetist asks me to count backwards from a hundred simply because I’m looking forward to a few days in fetching sleepwear on the other side.

Part of my “I want to buy the party, not the party frock” epiphany was the shock of remembering that in Level 4 there were no parties to go to. Sure, I could I pop it on and do something with my hair other than spray more dry shampoo in it and then take a selfie and post it on social media, but there’s a special kind of “sad” about then spending the rest of day frocked up and alone. The Germans probably have a word for it. They certainly have a word for what probably happens next –“kummerspeck” which literally means “grief bacon” and refers to the weight you put on after a bout of emotional eating. I’m not saying sitting alone in your best dress eating a whole carton of feijoa ice cream is wrong, I’m just saying the Germans have a word for it.

If not a dress then, I thought, what about ordering something for a cheer-up that would be more appropriate for these times? All right, yes, track pants because that’s all I wear now and I only have two pairs and if you’re going to wear track pants when you’re not actually “at the track” they should at least be clean unless you’ve completely stopped caring.

And maybe, yes, how about ordering something for your face because despite all evidence to the contrary, you do care about how you look so maybe a serum that will bring back a youthful bloom so by the time you leave the house again people will say, “Gosh, you’re looking well” and not mean that as code for, “We see you’ve been at the grief bacon”.

So I “added to cart” a couple of pairs of trackies from one place, and a bottle of face oil from another and spent the next few days following the delivery progress via email and text, excited as a kid waiting for birthday treats. I can report the pants fit and the serum makes me feel optimistic – so much so I’ve now ordered the vintage style skater dress with roses because there will be a party one day and I want to be ready.


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16 Sep On Storming Out of a Zoom Meeting

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly for 20.9.21


A friend of mine stormed out of a Zoom meeting the other day. I am so entranced by this idea, I’ve been visualising it in my mind’s eye ever since.

In my version of her story – and I’m bringing some personal experiences to it – I picture a gallery view of attendees, a sort of B-grade “Celebrity Squares”. You already know you don’t like them. Partly that’s because you adore your friend and you know how this ends, but it is also because this is a serious board meeting yet (again, this is my version) someone is eating something from a bowl which is probably soup but makes you think “porridge”, and others have their camera pointing under their chins or straight up a nose. Also, the person who is supposed to be talking has their microphone on mute, and several people who aren’t supposed to be talking are unmuted so you can hear their email notifications go ping and something that could be either chewing or scratching.

Meanwhile, the host is aggressively refusing to acknowledge my friend’s request to speak. This has been going on for some time. Each time she unmutes herself to make her point, he uses his “Host” powers to mute her, like a boardroom game of whac-a-mole. Finally, gesticulating dramatically and posting a furious note in the Chat, my friend hits “Leave Meeting”, exiting Zoom and abandoning the checkerboard of ingrates to stew in their own virtual juice.

She said it was extremely satisfying. Right up until it was over. Deciding to go, reaching for the mouse, hovering over the button, the decisive “click”, and the emptying of her screen? Yes! But then there she was, alone, in her living room. Makes you realise how much the dramatic exit owes to the angry walkout, the door slam, and the furious drive home. It’s enough to make you reconsider your fantasy of being able to teleport.

It is remarkable how much the video/telephone combo has become part of our lives. Last Saturday night I spent four hours at an AGM for the comedy industry. True story. Also true is that it was on Basic Zoom so the meeting ended every forty minutes which for other people might have been a deterrent but for comedians on a Saturday night in lockdown? All 50-odd attendees logged back on each time with a fresh supply of snacks.

Back when I had the option of being in a room with other humans, I avoided Facetime and Skype, and I’d never heard of “Zoom” until I learnt other words like “social distancing” and “bubble”. Fair to say it has caught on – on one day in March 2020, the Zoom app was downloaded 2.13 million times.

Last October I hosted a national conference for 700 women from my home office, joking that I may or may not have been wearing pyjama pants, they would never know. But here’s another thing I’ve learnt – even in the virtual world, I dress up for it. I can’t access a formal attitude if I’m not in some level of formal wear.

I suddenly understand and appreciate the old-school dress code for radio – men in bowties, women in evening gowns. Maybe I don’t go that far, but I put on shoes and clean my teeth.

Besides, you need your proper pants on if you’re going to leave your camera going so they can watch you as you storm out.



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06 Sep Lockdown, you say – can I get a vodka with that?

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 13.9.21


Those snapshots the internet gives us of our collective curiosity are illuminating. As the nation was plunged into lockdown last month the thing we most googled was whether liquor stores would be open in Level 4. If I’m staying at home, we wanted to know, can I have a vodka?

In our next searches, we asked about supermarkets and laundromats, then the Level 4 rules in general, followed by the likelihood of wage subsidies and locations of Covid-19 testing stations.

That is a fine encapsulation of our fundamental human desires: booze, food, cleanliness, behavioural requirements, money and health. One might quibble over the order of our priorities, for sure, but we’ve got it all covered.

While everyone else was searching liquor store rules, I was looking for my track pants. This doesn’t make me a better person – I simply had clearer memories than others of how difficult it was to get vodka last time so already knew the answer.

But also I had firm intentions about behaving better this lockdown. Less of the wine and snacks, more of the daily exercise and creative output.

I found the track pants – my old favourites, plus one pair nabbed in a sale during Level 2 and barely worn, so they feel novel – and rifled through my “bought this on holiday as a souvenir” t-shirts, picking out the ones featuring Minnie Mouse to wear initially which kept the first week cheerful.

Also uplifting was reading a lot of very nice emails hoping I was well and keeping safe, sent by retailers whose stores I’d once spent money in and who thought of me as a loyal customer. Oh, and by the way, I could spend more money with them now online, no trouble at all. It was tremendously thoughtful of them.

Sage advice in these strange times is to stick to usual routines like making the bed each morning. Turns out I do these things – the bed making and also the ironing of sheets and tea towels – entirely for my own satisfaction and not for show. I don’t care if you’re coming over or not, the pillow cases will be smooth.

Sometimes you forget no one is coming over. The day we’d planned a couple of family Zooms, I found myself elbow deep in the toilet giving it a good scrub halfway round the S-bend before realising our visitors would be in the living room virtually, and not actually using the facilities.

These chats with family and friends in other countries are helpful for hot tips from lockdown veterans, and a sobering reminder that here we’re not dealing with overwhelmed hospitals and daily death tallies.

I always have a list of chores, but I am learning not to obsessively tick them off one at a time. Instead, I am taking what I think of as the “peck” approach. A little bit of each kind of thing that makes me feel like I’ve achieved something or that brings me joy. So daily there is a light dusting of housework, some business admin, a dive into creative work, a chat with someone in the world outside my bubble, and a fair amount of staring at the cat.

In the quietest of times, I am embroidering a cushion with: “Never do today what might usefully amuse you tomorrow.” Very much enjoying the process so obviously I can’t ever finish it.


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30 Aug On “Pushing On Through”

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 6.9.21


I had a baby 28 years ago, and I think that’s why I am still a bit tired now. I mean, I’ve had a couple of decent sleeps since then, but I suspect as a new mother you learn an approach to life that possibly isn’t serving you so well if you keep it up in middle-age.  

I remember that fog of exhaustion – woolly headed, dizzy, a tinge of nausea – so clearly. My baby was born six weeks early and had to be woken to feed every two hours, but I know full term babies are no guarantee of longer stretches of sleep either. So you push on through, ignoring your body’s and your mind’s need for rest, because this is the Thing You Must Do. There is a new human to keep alive!  

But at some point, all that disregarding of the signs you should go to bed and stay there is not going to be good for you. Tricky though – once you’ve mastered the art of Soldiering On it can be hard to make yourself halt this relentless march and leave the parade for a bit of a quiet sit.  

I seem to recall there was a time when people who were ill went to bed and didn’t get up till they were cured. Now there’s a pill for that which can take away all the symptoms so you can pretend you’re quite well thank you, and maybe go share whatever it is with your workmates, and then they can take a pill, too.  

Possibly this global pandemic has made us better – I hope so – about keeping to ourselves when we’ve got anything that looks even vaguely Covidy. I’ve noticed people with tickly throats or hay fever pointedly identify the cause of their coughs and sneezes as non-pandemic related, as in: “Washoo! Crikey, the pollen is bad this season, isn’t it, Cheryl?”  

I also remember a simpler time when, if we were tired, we’d go to bed and fall asleep with a book. Now when we’re exhausted we sit on the couch and watch just one episode to wind down, and then just one more because at this point we’re too tired to get up and go to bed, so we might as well finish the series.  

One of the reasons I can remember the fog of exhaustion – woolly brain, queasy tummy – is that I am feeling it now. I checked my temperature and it’s not that, so I checked my diary and that would explain it – too many days on, not enough time off due to a tendency to say “yes” to everything except an early night with a book.  

So that’s what I am doing now – consciously paying attention to the signs that I need sleep, or space and calm, and unlearning those new-mother skills (which might have become habits) of “pushing on through”. Habits compounded, no doubt, in those of us who are self-employed or freelancers or instilled with a protestant work ethic that suggests we are defined by our devotion to what we do.  

My late-mother would remind me at regular intervals, when she saw the midnight oil burning at mine, that her yoga teacher would say, “Remember, Donna, we are human beings, not human doings”.  

The baby is all grown up now. I might put myself down for a nap.

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23 Aug Reception Trouble

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 30.8.21


It is useful, I think, to know when you are most likely to be the worst version of yourself.

Some people are a bit touchy first thing in the morning – slow to wake, in need of a shot of caffeine before they’re ready to engage. For others there’s a mid-afternoon hangry slump that shortens their fuse. Parents struggle to maintain their usual charm and poise around dinner/bath hour, and people who leap out of bed at dawn to go for a run can get a bit snappy if they’re kept up beyond their bedtime.

I try to be a pleasant person to be around – it seems the least we can do for each other since we’re sharing a planet – and it’s easy to pull this off because I genuinely like a lot of the people I meet. But recently I’ve worked out there is a particular place that I am most likely to be a horrific grump – at a hotel or motel check-in.

The problem is that, in my head, arriving at my accommodation is the end of something – the end of the early start, the bag packing, the trip to the airport infused with general anxiety about missing flights, the waiting, the boarding, the flight itself, then navigating a ride with a stranger from airport to accommodation.

Good cab rides are either peaceful or a conversational delight – I met a woman who does fly-fishing recently and I still miss her – but there are also bad cab rides that do terrible things to your blood pressure and your faith in humanity.

Arriving at reception looks like the end of all this – you are tired and also grubby for no reason you can pinpoint, and in need of a wee, and you would like to be alone now. But for the person on the other side of the desk, it is the beginning of their bit, which is Being Welcoming plus Admin. Forms, credit cards, questions about newspapers and breakfasts that seem so far off into the future you can’t imagine ever needing them in your life, and that ubiquitous question, “How’s your day been?” which feels hard to answer prettily given your day has so far consisted only of those dull things listed above – though you have high hopes for the remainder of the day once you’ve made it to your room, soon please.

Day Three of a four-day multi-stop trip, I turned into a proper Karen. (Apologies to all my friends call Karen who are, one and all, adorable, but you know what I mean.) Faced with a three hour wait until check in, stranded in a carpark outside a locked office and with nowhere else to be, I badly wanted to ask to speak to the manager but realised I already had her on the phone and she couldn’t help me no matter how much I suggested she might.

But one of the cleaners let me leave my suitcase behind and wander off (see also: get me out of their hair) and a couple of hours later I came back and there was a room waiting and I apologised to the staff for being terse earlier. Not at my best, I said, at check-in, especially when I can’t.

They say that if you feel uncomfortable about a pattern of behaviour, then on some level you are already moving towards changing it. Expect warmth, charm and cheerful descriptions of how my day has been next time you see me at reception.


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23 Aug Adults Only

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 23.8.21


“Is this… um… Is this a no-kids resort?” We’re on holiday in Rarotonga and a family with two young boys have dropped by to have a look around. I’m wandering past with a book when the mother stops me to ask the question in a tone that is tinged with wonder, and also hope.

Yes, I tell her, you have to be over 16 to stay here or to use the pool which is deep enough for dive lessons, though anyone is welcome to eat at the restaurant. She says it would feel mean to give the kids lunch by the pool but not let them swim in it afterwards, and I see her point. I ask how long they’re in Rarotonga for – ten days, she says, which is longer than us and I’m envious. “But you can do a lot more in a week without two kids in tow!” she says, and we grin at each other because I used to be her, and one day she might be me.

I remember my first holiday as a mother, about eight months into the parenting lark. It was a weekend away and somehow I’d imagined it would be like pre-baby weekends away – a dinner out, a nap, no housework or cooking, much peace and freedom and maybe a book. Then the shocking realisation that a weekend away with a baby was exactly like a weekend at home with a baby, except without the stuff you needed on hand.

This is my first experience of an “adults only” resort. Though “adults only” sounds like the back room of a video store with rude movies… “Child free” maybe? Just “quiet” mostly, with a distinct lack of shrieking in the pool or whining at the restaurant or sulking on the sun loungers. That special kind of quiet your house has once you’ve got the last kid off to school.

We are people temporarily escaping kids, or yet to have kids, or enjoying being able to afford the luxury of a place without kids now our kids have left home. Even our conversations seem quieter, our voices less urgent, lacking the edge of hysteria you detect in someone’s first adult conversation of the day. No one needs to be told off, given warnings, or have boundaries explained. You are not vigilant. You are allowed to swim at night in the pool so long as you don’t annoy anyone. Aside from the no-kids rule, there are almost no others. 

I like how adults are with each other when it’s just us. We dip in and out of conversations, and occasionally gather in groups for sunset cocktails but also sometimes don’t. I get the feeling we’d all cheerfully lend our neighbours a cup of sugar but probably wouldn’t ask for one ourselves. We are delighted to be self-contained.

There is a wedding on our beach, and an engagement, and other stories are shared about big life events. We give each other hot tips on places to eat and occasionally all end up at the same restaurant where we smile and wave but stay at our own tables, comparing notes the next day about the cheesecake and fish.

After eight days, I’m at the airport where clusters of hot, fraught families are making their way home and I am so overwhelmed by the sounds they make, I put in my earbuds and listen to an ocean scape. I will re-acclimate, but I’m not ready yet.


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23 Aug Keeping Secrets

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 16.8.21

If you have any juicy secrets you are bursting to tell, here’s an offer – they are perfectly safe with me. This is because I am, in possibly equal parts, both discreet and a bit daft.

The discreet part comes from my childhood. Our close neighbours back then were what might be termed “movers and shakers” in the twin worlds of business and politics. When special guests arrived for cocktails and dinner – the environment where important deals are actually done and then rubber-stamped later in the boardroom – I was asked to pop on my best frock and climb the fence between our houses to hand around the nuts.

So between the ages of 10 and 17, I was privy to many a conversation about the business, political (and occasionally marital) machinations that kept our little part of the world turning. I understood without ever really being told that what happened over pink gin and canapés wasn’t to be broadcast beyond the garden fence. 

From time to time, our delightful neighbour might say to my mother, “I suppose Michele mentioned that so-and-so is running for parliament/ selling the company/ having it away with her doctor,” and my mother would first look blank, then proud, then finally a little disappointed and say, “No, she didn’t mention it.” Having passed this test, I continued to be invited over to hand around the nuts.

I loved knowing stuff – occasionally my parents would share some bit of local news and I’d say smugly, “I know” and perhaps, now that beans had been spilt, I would add an extra bit of detail they hadn’t heard, and give it an extra flourish.

I still like knowing stuff. Some of my work – as an MC for awards nights or voice artist for advertising campaigns or auditions for TV dramas – comes with a non-disclosure agreement to be signed and witnessed. I get a small frisson of excitement about being handed an NDA – it suggests you’re part of a select group who have been told an important secret, and I enjoy the chill of reading legal-speak for the ramifications you are threatened with if cats are let out of bags.

But really, I don’t need an NDA because I have also, over the years, become a bit vague. Fairly often, I’ve heard something on the radio or TV and thought, “Whose voice is that? She sounds familiar…” before realising it was some secret campaign for a fancy new product I’d recorded months ago and forgotten about the moment I’d signed the NDA and left the studio. It’s as though my brain responds to being asked to file something away as a secret by not filing it away at all.

And people like to tell me stuff. Perhaps because I tell personal stories on stage and in print, total strangers feel very comfortable about confiding in me – I hear stories in bars that I feel honoured to be trusted with, and then I promptly forget all the names and places involved. I would make a weird spy – terrific at the intelligence gathering, able to elicit all kinds of information but then… nothing to report, sir. You’d have to water-board me to make me remember what I did last week.

So really, if you have something you desperately need to tell someone and don’t want it to go any further, talk to me. I make an excellent pink gin and do help yourself to the nuts.

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04 Aug The things you think while driving over the Remutakas…

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 9.8.21


I am driving over the Remutaka hill, thinking about names, and why they matter. It is one of those winter days that appears like a gift – clear blue skies, the sun hitting the car in a way that makes it feel like a moving capsule of summer. With no wind or rain to battle the rental car fairly swoops up these winding curves from Wellington, and drops down the other side into the Wairarapa.

When I was a girl, these were the “Rimutaka” ranges, not “Remutaka”. The spelling mistake was fixed only recently, part of a Treaty settlement for the Rangitāne iwi made legal in 2017. Remutaka means “to sit down and gaze” which is what early explorer Haunui-a-Nanaia did here on his journey of discovery across the southern North Island. As opposed to “Rimutaka” which doesn’t mean much of anything.

As I drive, I am thinking about other names that have been changed back to the original, to something that makes more sense. When I was a girl, my mother had a friend called Pearl who announced one day in middle age she would now be called Elizabeth. This was her original name and the one she wanted to use now, not the nickname she had come to be known by.

Eyes were briefly rolled in our small town. “Elizabeth” sounded formal, possibly regal, yes? Plus remembering to call her something different from the name used when they first got to know her would be hard. Jokingly (but not to her face) for a while she was referred to as “Per-Lizabeth”, and then the town got on with other things.

I wish now I’d been able to ask her how she had come to be known as Pearl, why it didn’t feel right for her anymore and what motivated her to reclaim Elizabeth. I can imagine stories from banal to dramatic that could explain it.

Whatever it was, I understand this affection for an original name. Despite marrying countless (ok, three) times, I have never changed my family name because it is part of who I am. It places me in my whakapapa and connects me to my own history. Any of the men who married me would have been welcome to change their name to mine, but they also were comfortable about continuing to be themselves.

I am excited when I hear about changing place names back to their pre-colonial versions, and the history the original name reveals. I feel more joy about living in Tāmaki Makaurau – a place “desired by many”– than in a city named by William Hobson after a man who was the Earl of Auckland, neither of whom were from here.

We are organically moving towards calling this country Aotearoa – not through legislation, but by popular usage. I am tickled when I hear grumpy old men kick against this with a “Who decided this? No-one asked me!” which is the kind of thing you might say if you are someone who is used to being in charge but find you no longer are.

We’ve proved that our brains are nimble enough to embrace what will be for some of us – though not all – new words. We’ve learned to sing our anthem in te reo, we can find Ōtautahi and Kirikiriroa on the map. And it takes me a long moment now to remember that Mt Taranaki was once called “Egmont” back when Elizabeth was called Pearl.


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04 Aug Too Stressed To De-Stress

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 2.8.21


If you’re lying on a massage table worrying about not being a good massage recipient, you’re probably not doing it right. This is the thought that made me snort-laugh last week at a Rotorua spa, startling the masseur.

It’s not that I’m a massage novice. I’ve been having them regularly for years as a way to deal with mental stress and also treat muscular problems. There is a fabulous massage therapist I’ve been seeing for more than two decades and who remains my favourite but, when I’m out of town, I might see someone else. She’s okay with that – we’re not exclusive. I know she sees other people, too.

Before her, I used to go to a guy who mostly massaged athletes. At first, I liked how no-nonsense he was – the place smelled of liniment rather than frangipani oil and there was a noticeable lack of dolphin music – but in the end the general ambience of feet and old sneakers stopped me going back.

There was a massage in Aitutaki that was like a religious experience, and a “couple’s massage” at a spa in California that felt like a scene from movie, though neither of us could work out whether the genre was romantic comedy or porn. I’ve been massaged on beaches and in bures, using everything from hot rocks to brushes and bamboo, and wrapped in seaweed and mud.

I’ve developed an approach to massage etiquette. I shave my legs so they don’t feel they’re risking splinters. Knickers are generally optional, and the massage therapist will let you know their preference or provide you with a disposable pair but, just in case, I’ll turn up in something not too shabby but not so fancy I’ll be worried about getting oil on it, and flexible enough to move around so they can get at the maximum of my gluteus maximus. Honestly, I can’t overstate how much tension we are all holding in our bum-cheeks – let them have at it.

Related, I’ve learned that the fear of farting is far greater than the actual incidence. Unlikely to happen if you don’t eat a pie before your appointment and, honestly, what with the aromatherapy oils and zen music, we can all cheerfully pretend it didn’t.

But on the table last week with a brand new masseur, I was suddenly hit with a wave of anxiety. I was enjoying it, but how could I let him know that I was? Should I say something? Sigh, perhaps? Make happy noises? But would that be weird? What do other people do when they are on the table?

Suddenly I realised this was not a conversation I’d ever had with anyone. Do other people give the masseur regular feedback? Was I known in massage circles as the least appreciative client in spa history? Was I the equivalent of an audience that stares at the entertainer inscrutably, and then suddenly gives them a standing ovation once it’s over?

At which point I realised I had disengaged from my body’s experience of the massage to worry about him, and that a whole leg had been brushed and kneaded but I’d missed it. That I was so worried about doing this wrong, I was absolutely doing this wrong. Hence my snort-laugh and his momentary surprise. “Sorry,” I said, “this is lovely. Just drifted – present now.” And I was, for the rest of the hour.

I was so relaxed by the end of it, I probably would have been really good at having a massage.


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17 Jul Vaccine Envy

First published in the NZ Woman’s Weekly 26.7.21


Here’s a thing we couldn’t have imagined in our pre-Covid lives – “vaccine envy”. Who saw this coming? Jealous of the neighbour’s new ride-on-mower, sure, I get that – I want one and I’ve barely got a lawn. Or a tinge green-eyed about someone’s holiday photos or first prize in the raffle drawer. In these moments I think we all allow ourselves a tiny moment of “Really happy for you, but what about me?”

And there are higher stakes involved in getting the vaccination call up. Not to downplay the joy you can get from a ride-on-mower, but that’s more of a labour-saver than life-saver. Once the travel bubble opened with Australia, a bunch of us felt our anxiety levels rise at the increased opportunity for that tricky virus to sneak across our border, especially if our health was vulnerable. It had been easy to look like we were waiting patiently when the virus wasn’t running loose in the community, but we’ve seen how fast your luck can change, and it started feeling urgent.

With a whole nation waiting for their turn, vaccine envy is running hot now at the school gate and in the office kitchen, and everywhere on social media. Some version of, “How come you’ve been vaccinated but I haven’t yet? How did you pull that off?!”

I had moments of “vaccine envy” myself. I’d hear about someone who lived with a border worker or nurse, or (rarely) had been in the right place at the right time and had been invited to use their arm to mop up a leftover shot. Happy for them, right? But just a small case of the what-about-mes.

I’ve been very open about being in the early weeks of Group 3 vaccinations. I figure it’s useful for anyone who might be vaccine-hesitant to hear positive experiences. It has not, however, brought joy to all.

“This absolutely 100 per cent ticks me right off,” someone wrote to my husband and me on Facebook, though she didn’t say “ticks” but a word that sounds a bit like it. I felt her frustration as she explained she was an essential worker during lockdown who’d kept the supermarket shelves packed so the rest of us could buy toilet paper and bread. “Yet we get placed at the bottom of the vaccination pile… BELOW comedians?”

I mean, honestly, she makes two fair points. One is that, while we celebrated essential workers during Level 4, we may have forgotten the risks they took for us then. One way to say thank you could be to protect them sooner rather than later. And second – quite right – no one should be jumping the queue because they tell jokes in pubs.

In reality the 1.7million people in Group 3 currently being vaccinated are in that category because of either age or underlying health conditions. It’s going to take a while to get through them all, and a 60 year old with a heart condition might get called up before an 83 year old, for example – which might look weird to you, depending on which one of those people you know personally.

I keep reminding myself that many diseases and disabilities are invisible and that, while you might know one thing about someone, you might not know all the things. And I keep hoping the lady from Facebook gets her shots soon.


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