"Is this the place?" says a man in the street, as I stand gazing up at the specified building. He has picked me as a Group 3 Covid-19 vaccine candidate: a woman of a certain age, looking bewildered. Off we go up escalators, following our noses.
Eventually, a sign. We're screened, then registered. Another man wanders in. He doesn't have an appointment. He wants a vaccine. "You need to book online," he's told. "I've tried," he wails. I got my invitation by email, out of the blue. Luck of the draw, I guess.
By the time I've registered, my vaccine buddy has taken his seat alone in the waiting area – there's no queue - and is busy stripping off all his clothes from the waist up. Over-preparing, surely, unless he knows something I don't.
What is the pandemic etiquette for approaching a half-naked near stranger at a vaccination centre? Should I sit beside him? Should I leave a seat between and risk causing offence by implying there's something peculiar about the clothes business? I sit beside him. He is adjusting his layers, he explains, so he can roll up a sleeve for his jab. Fair enough. I mention that my partner had to wait for an hour. No way he'd do that, he declares. He'd be off. He seems mildly resentful about the whole thing. Still, here he is.
Soon a nice lady calls me in, makes sure I know what I'm doing – do any of us, really, sailing these uncharted seas? – and praises me for my top with the loose sleeve. "It's my go-to vaccination jersey," I blurt idiotically.