The Jab

The Jab

After most of what appeared to be endless holdbacks; I was eventually invited, via a linked text message, to book for the initial jab of the covid vaccine.

Ensuing a taxing, to understate, twelve months: suffering from coronavirus early in the first wave, losing my partner to the virus, a reassurance, then a second bout of the damned infection, I had been eagerly awaiting a call up. At forty-one I appeared to be at the younger, therefore later, end of my age category. With no underlying health issues my wait seemed to have been extended beyond the norm, would I ever be called?

Informed by others to contact my surgery as they were likely to have surplus vaccines available, but I opted to wait until requested. Jumping the queue just doesn’t seem very British and I was a little concerned that I may be taking from others with more preeminent health concerns.

Ellation gained momentum as I moved online to book at, would you believe, the Kenny Dalglish stand of the Liverpool Football Stadium. This made a hit, Dave my partner, had been a major Red and Dalgluish was one of his favored managers. A presence of him looking out for me now he was no longer with us. 

A sun drenched Sunday, setting off on time and arriving a tad early. Despite having mislaid my mobile phone with booking details the steward ushered me swiftly through to the central stand. Everything then ran with the utmost precision, very brief queues, obligatory questions then a painless little tingle of a jab.

Minor concerns over the jab being referred to as the ‘Oxford’,  at this point I was suspecting this was the AstraZeneca vaccine and the staff had been guided to state Oxford over the ever emerging bad press around the second vaccine to be approved in the UK.

Although I had been warned of side effects by the nurse, nothing made itself known. Only a subtle dead arm of no real significance, I was fine. 

1:30 AM


Bolt awake


Heart pulsing

A barrage of thoughts racing through my mind

Face muscles feeling like they’ve been smashed off a wall.

‘This is it again.’

I recalled previous attacks of covid.

Rising after the sleepless ordeal, heart pounding rapidly, headache traversing the skull. 

Opted to call it a sick day.

Per contra, short lived, by 9AM I was fine to start work, online, no problems. A slight head throbbing re-engaged with my brain, however, easily beaten by paracetamol. Arm felt like a safety pin had been inserted each side of the injection, then an elongated triangle running downward of surface dead cells. 

That was that!

A mini covid experience from the vaccine. Although unpleasant, a minor ailment in comparison to the virus: full blown. 

Water-Flower Can

The Water-Flower Can

The Water-Flower Can is to be considered a most magnificent example of functional art.

The humble watering vessel dates back to at least 79 AD, they can be found at Pompeii, artefacts encrypted by the volcanic explosion. The Roman versatile plant watering tool remaining with us today and beyond the pandemic: Post Covid. Ideal for watering plants, placing among garden pots or as a planter in its own right. 

The Liverpool based artist, Alison Little adorned this creation from handle to spout in roses of splendor. Paint flick techniques adding a celebratory flavour to the form.

A Water-Flower Can, so splendid it will be the envy of mother nature’s creations!


UK mainland delivery £3

Hand painted finish may vary.

Contact to purchase.

The Year Traversed

Dave, Alison’ partner was lost to covid on the 8th of April 2020. This was the deadliest day of the first wave of the pandemic in Liverpool. To mark the anniversary of his passing she has worked on ‘A year Traversed’. In this she recall anecdote which he frequently re-told, elements of his personality in which she misses, in addition to her feeling around life without him. The poem is best listened to, in the spotify link she reads the verses. The style is rather raw in places and needless to state contains explicit language and content.

The Year Traversed

Tales of travels to Niguaguar

Nearly getting nicked for viagra

Vessels bound for South America

Being held down by the jugular

GI father, returned, the States

Before you could become mates

Comics, parcelled over in spates

Never learned any of his traits

Growing up in the tennies

Being robbed for pennies

Jam sandwich, filled belly

To the Logan to watch telly

Teenage girl, saved from agro

Big sis left you aglow

First experience of fellatio

‘Little sister’ sounded, the radio

Sters Refrigerator a first role

Never the pistol or the dole

Apprentice, Troops, on bank roll

Engineering in your soul

Sid machining, on landmass

Squisey, tool heavy, ships forecast

Engine room, never underclass

Georgey Wivell, crass, with brass

A wife, three daughters added

Caravan at Formby, expanded

Weekends, Kop afflicted

Offshore Monday, airlifted

Marital turmoil, could not forewarn

Some looked on with scorn

A new relationship, torn

You were gifted with Shaun

The bar, Razor crowned you Dadio

Rounds ordered in, Jimmy Robbo

Odds stacked up by Mic Allo

Glass eye enters the scenario

Jumper you bought, size twenty-two

Could have fitted both me and you

The size eight jeans presented anew

Impossible fit, despite attractive blue

Vigour shown with your little man

Austin the puppy, you understan’

Returning late, greeting him dancin’

Proclaiming: Austin, Austin, Austin

The last year, thrown

In the morgue, alone

Funeral service, tear prone

Covid restrictions bemoan

Flowers absent

Mourners debarment

Technical adjournment

Send off displacement

Necessary diminishment

Love adamant

Weeks of obliteration

Sort alienation

Covid gripped nation

Death toll amplification

Chin dipped smile

Hand talk bilingual

Chair dancing immobile

Examining Reds profile

Glittering eye crystal

Silence hostile

Physically, you are no more

Not returning from offshore

Covid, I continue to deplore

My heart, we still have rapport

Years we had, top score

You are within me evermore

Alison Little

Ivy League Washing

The eco hack you will wish you discovered years ago!

What would you say if I was to tell you that for 30 pence you could cover the cost of laundry detergent for eternity?

The Ivy hack extraordinaire!

Here’s how it works:

You collect wild ivy on your daily walk.

Place in a mesh bag and tie shut, I used a reusable fruit and veg back I got from Asda for 30 pence.

Place it in the washing machine with stained washing.

Washing comes out: clean, stain free and with a wonderful evergreen forest aroma.

Ivy can preferably be composted, but if binned will decompose quickly in landfill.


It is every bit as good as traditional washing powder, I tried it on floor cloths and they came out white again.

So why is it more environmental?

Primarily: Zero packaging or transportation needed.

Ivy grows abundantly as waste foliage, all year round. It will decompose naturally and at pace. Daily walks in green space are eco pursuits as opposed to internal energy consuming activities. 

Other plus points?

The cost:

30 pence mesh bag versus £10 a month washing powder, amounting to £120 yearly, totalling six grand over the next 50 years not accounting for inflation.