Jab Gibbers

Giving my affinity for furries and my knack of finding silly ways of hurting myself, I decided that Hep. B and Rabies injection would be a Jolly Good Idea for my forthcoming trip to the Land of Paddington Bear. Of course, the timing of these meant I had to have them in France. A quick flash of research revealed little difference in cost between France and the UK, so I decided a trip to the Centre de Santé Publique would be a new cultural experience.

Me: Hello, I'd like to book an appointment please.
Woman: Okay, how about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Sorry, I can't do Tuesdays. How about Wednesday?
Woman: Er, okay...what about Tuesday at 4pm?
Me: Um, I really can't do Tuesdays, I'm afraid. Any other days of the week?
Woman: Monday at 5pm?
Me: Yes, that sounds great.
Woman: Okay, so that's Thursday at 2pm.
Me: Er...no, I thought it was Monday at 5pm?
Woman: Oh yes, silly me! Okay, so Monday at 1pm.
Me: No, 5pm.
Woman: Whoops! Of course; 5pm on Thursday.
Me: No... Maybe it would be easier if I came in later today with my diary?
Woman: How about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Okay...

Sometimes it's easier to rearrange an entire day than to attempt battle with French receptionists.

An appointment and thousands of health leaflets later, I turn up for my first jabs. Now, maybe it's just my experience of particular doctors' surgeries in the UK, but every time I've had an injection it's gone something like this:

Nurse: So what are you going to do on holiday?
Me: Well, I'm going to - JAB!
Nurse: All done!

All done in a flash, occasionally with the warning that it might sting a little, and all done on a normal chair in the nurse's room.

In France, it seems like a much bigger deal. I'm lead to a terrifyingly complicated chair, which has more moving parts than a K'nex Ferris Wheel kit. I feel powerless and have strong flashbacks to torture scenes from American drama series. The nurse gets the needle out of the fridge, fills out a certificate with complicated chemical names that are being pumped into me, and shows me. Is that okay? Yes. Is my name spelt correctly? Yes. Is my date of birth wrong? No. Am I definitely going to Peru? Have I had all the other injections? Am I not allergic to vaccinations? It's a terrifying drill in linguistical and organisational skills, and there are so many negatives thrown in, I start just shaking my head around in the hope that she'll assume the right answer.

She shows me the box to confirm she's pumping the right disease into me. Okay, yep that's great. Just ask me about my holiday and jab it in. She takes a new rubber glove out of its packet and snaps it onto her hand. She asks which arm I'd like it in. Does it make a difference? She re-rolls my sleeve up, tells me to relax. No, relax! Relax the muscle. There you go. Taps the syringe, squirts some liquid in the air. Tells me it's cold and it's going to hurt. Asks if I'd like to watch or not. Gives me a count-down. And it's in. Big relief.

After all that, I'm briskly accompanied to the payment desk and sent on my way. In the UK I'm always told to wait ten minutes in case of an extreme reaction. I'd assume that's a bit more serious than the nurse not rolling my sleeve up properly, but there you go. Strange old world.

I've never had a problem with injections before, but with a build-up like that, it's amazing anyone gets vaccinated at all in France!