"I'M invincible now," I beam at the vaccinator. She is very quick to adjust my expectations, downwards and sharply.

On Sunday I had my second covid jag at Glasgow Central Mosque. It was atypically sunny and the heat was fraying tempers.

As the sun glinted down from the golden glass dome overhead, a scrap broke out in the queue as some folk illicitly darted forward - who was first, who was waiting longest, who was in the biggest rush. Voices raised, fingers jabbed, sweat dripped. One chap was taps aff, no need to roll up his sleeve - just stick him anywhere on the torso.

There was something ineffably comforting about it all.

Here was a miracle of science in the hall of a mosque. Here was the global effort of many fine minds distilled down into a tiny vial. Here was the end of a thread running 225 years from Edward Jenner to a queue in the Gorbals.

All poetry and wonder sapped out for the sake of an unexpected delay. A free shot, available only to the privileged, that may save your life and your loved one's life. We were raging to be kept waiting, we didn't know we were born.

More than the drop down the levels from four to zero, the fact that we're back to being extremely British about queues shows that life is moving forward in the right direction.

My first covid jag, a mere seven weeks before, was at The Hydro down by the River Clyde in Glasgow.

The queues were beautiful and sternly regulated by a serious of high vis vests who told us the precise spot on which to stand. How strange it was to be back in the venue after so long. The many, many gigs I've enjoyed there but now the scene transformed to a take on a disaster movie with cubicles and sharps bins and a sea of scrubs.

This was just at the start of the concern about clots in my age group and it was the AstraZeneca that entered my arm. I didn't feel a thing, not then. It was over in seconds and then... nothing happened. Why weren't trumpets sounding?

I had heard about flu like symptoms and was concerned about being floored but, the next day, I felt a bit squiffy but not too bad. Slept like a baby right through the night, though, for the first time in years.

Staff from the Scottish Ambulance Service run a Covid Mobile Testing Unit in the car park of the Glasgow Central Mosque Picture: Andrew Milligan/PA Wire

Staff from the Scottish Ambulance Service run a Covid Mobile Testing Unit in the car park of the Glasgow Central Mosque Picture: Andrew Milligan/PA Wire

For the first jag I had a text message and email, which was extremely efficient, but I was a tiny bit popped not to have a blue envelope. Delight, then, for Jag 2 when I received a written appointment. It feels like a historic document, something to file away and show the grandchildren.

When my mum had her first vaccine in February I cried with relief. I've felt a flood of relief every time someone I love is vaccinated. Is that common?

I've had such a fortunate experience of the pandemic with no grievous losses at all, yet the fear of loss is every present. My best friends are vaccinated or booked in for one, my family.

When I was little, in Australia, there was a sunscreen advert that showed a woman pressing a white button on the front of the bottle causing a dark triangular dome to zap down over whomever she pointed it at, protecting them from UV rays.

Such deep disappointment when I had my own bottle, pressed the button and nothing happened. I picture that protective zap each time I hear a loved one has been jagged.

I feel guilt too. Guilt at being protected from the virus when so many others do not have that chance. Guilt at being vaccinated so early for my age group (unpaid carer) and knowing friends in the same bracket don't have so much as an appointment yet.

Apparently that's common, to feel so much guilt at the huge sigh of relief that comes with being jabbed. I read an interview with a psychologist talking about the phenomenon.

"If it’s your turn, it’s your turn," the article said. Good advice.

While having the vaccination is an act of care for those around you, it's understandable to be cautious. Read up, find out information, don't take it all from social media but from reputable sources.

It took just 366 days from the coronavirus’s genetic blueprint being shared online by Chinese scientists to the Pfizer vaccine receiving authorization for emergency use. That's fast. It normally takes up to 15 years for a vaccine to be developed, tested and approved.

People queuing in the car park for a vaccination at the Glasgow Central Mosque in Glasgow Picture: Andrew Milligan/PA Wire

People queuing in the car park for a vaccination at the Glasgow Central Mosque in Glasgow Picture: Andrew Milligan/PA Wire

It's no wonder people are hesitant. That can be helped by researching and finding out information.

I've spoken to people with anxiety about the side effects. Not the potentially serious side effects, but the flu like symptoms that come with the jag. I got off lightly while I know other people who were floored for days. It's temporary, though, and worth it in the long run. The side effects mean your immune system is kicking in to action and that's only good news.

Last weekend when half of appointments weren't attended at The Hydro there was heavy criticism of people not turning up. It's more likely that a good proportion of those missed appointments were due to Glasgow's transient populations missing their letters, having moved house or moved on.

There's little point in being angry against people who refuse. They have their reasons. Reasonable conversation and quality information, patience and understanding are a better way to go.

In America, states are introducing incentives for people to take their jags. In New Jersey, the state will buy you a pint for a prick of the vaccine. In California, a town is trying to persuade teenagers to take the shot by holding a raffle for $10,000 scholarships. Idaho is carrying on along the same lines with a lottery offering a full four-year scholarship for teenagers and $1 million for everyone else.

The promise of an end of anxiety and a return to an easier life might not be enough for some but concerns can't be so real if you would set them aside for a pint.

Vaccines are literally our best shot and we're so fortunate to have the choice. It feels like light at the end of the tunnel, the relief of having little to worry about but being unselfconsciously cranky in queues.