Getting a Covid vaccination where I live reminds me of feeding chickens.
I arrive at the chicken run with a full bowl of corn. “Mornin’ all, I call”, to be totally ignored – until they see the tell-tale bowl. I dip my hand into the corn, take a full handful of chicken-feed and throw it into the air.
An unseemly scramble ensues, with every chicken racing to get to their dinner before the others. There is no politeness in the fowl world, just every chicken for herself, the law of the jungle.
Had I time and inclination I would train the chickens to line up in alphabetical order, or age, or gender. But I’m just a farmer’s boy, and can’t tell the chickens apart in any case. So I can piously think that every chicken is being served in the best possible way. But in reality the more shy ones get thinner every day.