All travel to the islands was closed, except to essential workers. I produced the letter confirming that I was going to work for NHS Orkney, and was allowed to join a queue that consisted of just one other car. Storm Christoph was incoming, and the 90-minute crossing was a rough one. The clinics I conducted were of just three or four patients a day. Although I had no symptoms, and had been vaccinated, each patient was assessed from behind masks and gloves, on the off chance I could be transmitting the virus. Every lunchtime there were home visits in my dual role as substitute district nurse. On my rounds I heard story after story of how well Orkney, and in particular its smaller isles, had been protected – as indeed any island has had the potential to protect itself from the pandemic by controlling and quarantining arrivals.

Through the long evenings on call I joined Zoom meetings about the logistics of Lothian's rollout, and completed a string of online modules to prove myself competent: basic life support, anaphylaxis management, vaccine transportation and legislation, all assessed through a series of online tests. For a few days my phone buzzed with reactions from colleagues to the layers of bureaucracy we had to cut through to offer Covid vaccines. All were experienced vaccinators, and their responses varied from the furious ("FFS") to the sarcastic ("LMFAO"). I felt more bemused than angry: understanding the latest guidelines on the treatment of allergic reactions seemed fair enough. But I confess to an edge of frustration after failing one test, on my first attempt, because I didn't know the name of the 1968 act of parliament that governs vaccine prescriptions (The Medicines Act, if you must know).

It's a much joked-about law within medicine, at least in Scotland, that anyone arriving for vaccination must remove at least three layers of clothing before we can get at their arm. (Those who turn up in a vest under one thick overcoat – we salute you.) But in truth, the delays caused by the removal of clothing opens up the possibility of conversation. One of the first vaccinations I gave at my clinic in Edinburgh was to a proud, quiet man in his mid-80s. We hadn't met since last April, when his wife died of Covid-19. As he slowly removed his hat, scarf, jacket and pullover, then began painstakingly to roll up his shirt sleeve, we talked about the loneliness of this year, how sad he has been not seeing his great-grandchildren, and the dismal, restricted funeral he'd had for his wife. He didn't show any anger over her death, only sorrow. As I vaccinated him against the disease that killed her, he uttered a solemn, heartfelt thanks.