Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXVII

Leaps of fleshly walks

It had rained earlier besides the fact that there was a forecast of further rain episodes in Manchester. I was dressed in anticipation of adverse weather, but when I stepped out this afternoon to replenish my supply of cranberry juice that eases urinary tract issues, there was much to see.

There are people still adorning facemasks, they seem to be visitors from the Far East, in my case, I know that the Coronavirus is still about, five years on, because I only recently got my biannual booster, bringing my COVID-19 jabs to ten, in all.

However, as summer is now upon us, you cannot help but notice two things, the lips and the legs. The former is seen in both males and females, lips filled like balloons with fillers or Botox, all so unnaturally like big-lipped fish, very much the giant grouper or the Napoleon wrasse look. [A-Z Animals: Fish with Big Lips]

Flesh is not quite fresh

This is one case where beauty is hardly in the eye of the beholder other than whoever wants this unsightly cosmetic procedure that distorts from the natural and presents the utterly bizarre. For this and the latter issue, much as you want to look away, you are forced to see the indescribable that speaks louder than farce.

The rising mercury allows for the revealing of more skin, from shorts that should only be worn for a burlesque performance in a dingy poorly lit nightclub, well away from our common streets, to body parts that are best kept under wraps.

Whatever makes these fashion trends attractive fails to persuade me of either the self-awareness or the sensibleness of the purveyors. Yet, one must live and let live. Each time I walk through Manchester, one must curb the need to comment after seeing the outrageous to the dastardly.

It is still a bustling city of contrasts, changed and changing by circumstances, residents, and visitors alike. We cannot forget that the pandemic also wreaked havoc on our idyllic existence.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXV

Shopping around for pricks

At lunchtime today I had been phoning around to find a pharmacy, chemist, apothecary, or even a shamanist grotto offering the NHS Seasonal Vaccination for COVID-19, normally termed the booster shot.

I found a chemist location that did not have a pharmaceutical reference in their name suggesting they could give the shot today when I called yesterday afternoon. As I did not want another wasted journey, I called again this morning and was told, that if I arrived before 5:00PM, I could get the jab.

It would have been a 35-minute walk, but I got on a bus and the area looked familiar enough even as it is miles away from where I live. When I got there, I was asked to sit in a waiting area where I was the only one for the vaccine booster.

Those were big bulging lips

Soon, a young lady, trim and straining to be polite came out and asked for my name and other particulars, I noticed that all my data was presented on the computer she was working from. Her makeup was light, but it appeared she had gone for the prominent lip-boosted look, highly exaggerated and heavy with lip gloss, you could say the lips belonged on a Barbie doll, but what do I know about ladies’ lips?

The section where I was to be given the jab was in the front of the store by the window with a one-way screen, you could see out but those on the street could not see in. Sometimes, you need to be convinced that is really the case. People may not see the way you see things, and that includes lips too.

This would be the 8^th COVID-19-related prophylactic jab, 6 of the Pfizer type and 2 of the Moderna type mRNA injections.

She did not introduce the hypodermic needle with the customary, “Just a scratch,” that you hear nurses say when you are about to take the prick of a needle. It is a thinner needle, and the deed is done before you know it.

It went into my upper left arm, and in the little banter we had after being injected she said people had been coming from far away to get the vaccine. There is an inventory management issue as not all listed chemists have stocks to serve their communities.

A busman living for trouble

Back at the bus stop for my return journey, there was a bus in a minute, and it did arrive as I tried to wave it down to stop. The driver looked in my direction and shrugged, not even slowing down at all. I overlooked the slight as there was another bus scheduled to arrive, but someone standing at the bus stop with me and another walking up to the bus stop who put out his arm to wave it to a stop both said the bus had enough time to stop for me.

Much as I said I was not bothered, they read more into the event, apart from calling the driver unprintable names, they both indicated the driver was racist, these were two white men who had witnessed something probably unfair, cruel, or unjust, and they were quite riled up. The other man who attempted to wave down the bus said he would report the issue.

At which point, I posted a tweet to the Bee Network that runs the bus services in Greater Manchester just as the next and now, double-decker bus arrived and stopped for me to board. The jab seemed to exacerbate a sense of tiredness affecting my concentration, and as that wore off, it is just the slight pain in the area that suggests I had my dermis punctured earlier today.

Of skin that needs care

Not mine for thee

I am reminded of a phlebotomist who would never succeed in extracting a droplet of blood from out of my veins, no matter how hard he tried. That he is in that position must mean he is fully qualified to attend to such a delicate matter.

Yet, at closer to 7 than 6 feet tall and with a frame that would well be found with lumberjacks than in a hospital, his hands large as fans to compare with elephant ears that no matter how soft they are their gigantic expanse presents an apparent Lilliputian to a Gulliver in scrubs, almost too terrifying to countenance.

My first sight of him as he approached with a bowl of vials and phlebotomy paraphernalia my veins seized up and decided, no dainty word of comfort said from thee shall my veins yield to thy touch. By the time I was pricked and poked that I was a humanoid representation of the Swiss cheese called Emmental, I was sent to the hospital’s blood room where dexterity and capacity meant they could make stones exsanguinate and I to them was not a stone.

Oiling of the epidermis

The other day, I thought about my chapped lips that I hate putting lip balm on as it feels so irritating, I am ready to wipe it off in minutes. Surprisingly, I endured a whole night of the application of the lip balm and not since I used Wet Lips way back in Nigeria, a liquid balm with a roll-on applicator that gives a glistening and glossy look that might appear unusual on males but worked a treat.

That I have preferred to peel off dried skin from my lips despite the bruising and pain than using a balm is strange but convenient. Then moisturisation is a necessity I too often decline to my detriment, from hands to skin shedding on the soles of my feet and certain hard hands that might entertain a visit from a version of lib balm for the manicurist’s table.

I guess whilst parts of my face can seem to be oily, my skin needs a bit more care than I readily submit myself to essential grooming. I get the best care for my skin when Brian not only insists but is at hand, those hands to give my feet more than the kneading and care required.