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We arrive just before 3:30. A notice on the door says "due to the COVID-19 outbreak only two patients are allowed in the surgery. Please knock and wait for the receptionist." I knock, and we wait.
Anna, the receptionist, opens the door. She is wearing PPE and holding an infrared thermometer. She asks us to stand well apart on opposite sides of the room where she takes our temperatures. We all sterilise our hands.
T goes in to get his flu jab. I reflect on how quiet it is. Doctor Patricia is an Uruguayan who serves the large Spanish and Portuguese population in our area. Her surgery is usually busy, with up to eight - typically elderly - patients packed in the tiny waiting room. Today it's just me.
I ask Anna if they're busy. Not really, she says. Everyone is keeping away for fear of contracting COVID-19 from the surgery, despite the rigorous cleaning routine. They can't be too careful; both Patricia and Anna are around my age, late fifties, not high-risk age-wise, but certainly at risk of repeated exposure to the virus.
T thanks Patricia and Anna for "being in the front line and looking out for us". Patricia's eyes light up, and I can tell she is beaming under her face-mask. Anna looks embarrassed, mutters 'de nada' and waves his thanks away, but she also looks pleased.
Anna leads the way to the door, unlocks it, and stands on the footpath, allowing us to leave. An older couple is waiting to come in; Anna asks them to stand back so we can go. I smile at the couple; they smile back. We say our goodbyes and walk back to the car while the couple enter the surgery with Anna waiting with her PPE and infrared thermometer.
Anna, the receptionist, opens the door. She is wearing PPE and holding an infrared thermometer. She asks us to stand well apart on opposite sides of the room where she takes our temperatures. We all sterilise our hands.
T goes in to get his flu jab. I reflect on how quiet it is. Doctor Patricia is an Uruguayan who serves the large Spanish and Portuguese population in our area. Her surgery is usually busy, with up to eight - typically elderly - patients packed in the tiny waiting room. Today it's just me.
I ask Anna if they're busy. Not really, she says. Everyone is keeping away for fear of contracting COVID-19 from the surgery, despite the rigorous cleaning routine. They can't be too careful; both Patricia and Anna are around my age, late fifties, not high-risk age-wise, but certainly at risk of repeated exposure to the virus.
T thanks Patricia and Anna for "being in the front line and looking out for us". Patricia's eyes light up, and I can tell she is beaming under her face-mask. Anna looks embarrassed, mutters 'de nada' and waves his thanks away, but she also looks pleased.
Anna leads the way to the door, unlocks it, and stands on the footpath, allowing us to leave. An older couple is waiting to come in; Anna asks them to stand back so we can go. I smile at the couple; they smile back. We say our goodbyes and walk back to the car while the couple enter the surgery with Anna waiting with her PPE and infrared thermometer.