I arrived early at the clinic. Just like before, there was no waiting, none of the queues I’d seen at hospital. I even had the same nurse. She was standing in the doorway, ready with the needle. 

I felt more wound up about the second jab. Just get it over with, I was thinking. I’ve never liked needles, and heard the second dose of Pfizer had stronger side effects than the first shot. 

As I sat down, the nurse asked for my least favourite arm. She slipped the cap off the needle, I turned away and hardly felt a thing. I asked her about any symptoms to watch out for. 

"It depends on the person," she said. "Expect aches, fever and tiredness."

"Does that mean it’s working, that I’m getting a good immune response?"

"Rest, take Panadol."

A blonde woman with a black mask came into the treatment room as I left. I sat down in the courtyard outside, and set 15 minutes on my phone for my cool-off period. Soon the blonde woman came out and sat opposite. We exchanged an amused look. Perhaps this is an unexpected benefit of wearing masks—we’ve all developed stronger eyebrows, for expressing the excruciating irony of our times. 

I sat back, prodding my arm. An ache was already settling in. So how was this second dose going to compare to the first one? 

Sequels are rarely better than the original: for many critics The Godfather II is the best in the trilogy, but I prefer the first one. Technically I rate The Empire Strikes Back over Star Wars, but both movies are very different. Then there’s Toy Story II and Spiderman II. In many ways, COVID is in itself a sequel: but is “CoV-2” a simplification, as any virus is a result of millions of mutations?

The blonde woman left after five minutes. Perhaps I’d overdone the eyebrows.

Soon my alarm pinged and I went home. That evening I had a Zoom call with a Dutch school friend, who was feeling exultant after he’d ‘bagged’ his first vaccine jab. For months, Phil had been feeling depressed about the slow ‘roll-out’ in Holland; he’d called that morning to confirm an appointment in seven days, when the woman on the other end said, ‘We have a spare booking in thirty minutes.’ 

Phil jumped up, put on some shoes, grabbed his keys and wallet and cycled like hell across Amsterdam. I have an image of him leaning over his handlebars, his dressing gown streaming out behind him, people admiring his striped pyjamas as he raced past. 

Phil asked me how I was, after the second vaccine, and I said, "Actually, I’m feeling a bit stoned."

I went to bed feeling optimistic. 

At 3am I woke up feeling cold. I was lying next to something heavy and painful. I realised it was my arm. 

This must be working, I thought.

May in Malta is not cold, but I was shivering as I got out of bed. As I shuffled down the hallway, I started shaking. My throat felt like I was hanging in the grip of the Predator alien. Swollen lymph nodes?

I sat down in the bathroom and read some Calvin and Hobbes. The book shook in my lap, then gradually subsided. I didn’t feel so bad, but then I got up again and the shakes returned.

It’s working, it’s working, it’s working, I thought, as I shuffled back to bed. I popped some paracetamol and lay down with my new friend, the amazing pulsing arm. 

As I tried to sleep I compared Pfizer with other vaccines I’d taken. I must have been thirteen when I took my BCG [for Tuberculosis]. I remembered standing in line with other boys, waiting for the initial ‘tester’ dose. A nurse briskly ‘stamped’ my shoulder, leaving a three-pronged welt. 

Then we all had a week of waiting to see if the pin-prints would swell up, indicating we had a natural response, and didn’t need the dreaded injection. Every morning we woke up, hoping for a blossoming on our shoulders; as far as I can remember, no one experienced a miracle. 

So we went back to the nurse for the needle. Later I experienced some painful side effects, as all my good friends—including Phil— repeatedly punched my arm. Apart from that, I can’t remember any problems. 

I’ve taken a lot of travel vaccines since school. Three years ago I signed up for a boat trip in Borneo, for which I had to take the Yellow Fever vaccine. On the night before the flight I felt my usual pre-trip nerves, so I partied with a friend and ate some fish I’d cooked the night before. 

Early the next morning I was horribly sick in the bathroom. At the time I’d thought it was a combination of partying and nerves—or was it a late reaction to the Yellow Fever jab? According to the NHS website, side effects from that vaccination include headaches, muscle pain, raised temperature, and joint ache but no nausea or vomiting. So it was probably the fish. 

The day after my second Pfizer jab I felt like I’d aged thirty years. I shuffled around the apartment, feeling rotten; I’d read that exercising the aching arm may be a help, so I managed ten press-ups. Later I found out that exercising is not recommended after the jab. 

That day I ate and drank, and read Calvin & Hobbes. I tried building my Lego piano, but I could barely lift a brick. Feeling dizzy, I texted my friend the Immunologist: Wow, the second Pfizer has really wiped me out. 

His reply was swift:

Haha it does that

That was exactly what I needed to read. The next day I woke up feeling 60%, and now, a week later, I feel fine. The second Pfizer dose made me feel lousy but thankfully, as with most sequels, the nausea was short-lived.