There Will Be Blood

I'm not a fan of needles, or indeed any sort of sharp object that insists on puncturing my flesh. But then that's not strictly accurate is it? I'm not a fan of the pain that puncturing needles generate - even though it's usually a short, sharp scratch (the innuendo police have successfully managed to cause the abandonment of the use of the work prick in this context - although scratch I've always considered is such a bland and unsatisfying substitute). It's an unique pain when you think about it - something that is really dreadfully painful and yet is over in less time than it takes you to change channels when you're flicking through and accidentally alight upon an episode of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.

Given all this, it's truly unfathomable then why I subject myself to a pair of voluntary pricks (or scratches) every four months or so, in that I'm a blood donor.

I've been performing consensual blood-letting activities for almost twenty years now, off and on. Yesterday was my twenty-ninth donation, which is a little lax over two decades, but as I said, it's been an off and on process. In ye olde days I had to travel right to the City Centre in order to be punctured which was an annoyance as it involved finding a parking place then braving the walk through hordes of pushy shoppers in order for me to perform my duty. But now there's a monthly service at the local community centre, a mere fifteen minute walk from my workplace. I'm now rattling off the donations, and whilst my original ambition of the century is now impossible (unless they narrow the 'time between donation' ban down from four months, which may be likely as it was once six months and in the US is down to two months) I should still reach seventy-five.

I've only ever had a couple of wobbles. The first time was on my twenty-fifth occasion when my blood was rejected due to lack of iron. The second was on about my tenth time when I did feel a bit grim and gray afterwards and had to have a prolonged sit down.

My most memorable occasion was the first. I'd been inspired by the Gulf War and the associated calls for blood as stocks were getting low. But then so it seemed had everyone else as the donation centre queues matched those for the cinema queues for the release of The Phantom Menace (and subsequent queues under signs saying "Those disappointed by 'The Phantom Menace' please queue here). Took me two hours to get to the front, and the first thing I was asked was 'Have you had breakfast today' to which I replied 'Nope, I don't eat breakfast' (as I didn't at the time).

BUZZ! WRONG ANSWER!! Please exit through the door marked exit.

So I returned the next day, breakfasted, and went through the whole process again.

I can remember leaving the centre after that initial donation in a bit of a daze. So much in fact that I came within six inches of walking straight out in front of a car. The headlines should I have been mashed by the motor would have been notable: BLOOD DONOR GETS BLOOD BACK IN RECORD TIME.

So yesterday, I waltzed down to the Community Centre in my lunch hour, wondering what would be different about today's experience. Each time they change something about the process - you'd think as people have been giving blood since them black-and-white days (A PINT?!) they'd have perfectly the technique by now. But every time I go there's some little change - some little difference from last time. First the Blood-Iron test was taken from the pad of your thumb, but that then migrated to the pad of your longest finger. And now it's moved again - to the side of your longest finger. Keep this up and in one hundred years it'll be your little toe. No idea why it keeps moving.

Then there's the post-blood-let rest - you used to get twenty full minutes on a nice comfy recliner after being man-handled there by a nurse and three burly male assistants. Matrons used to patrol these areas, admonishing anyone who fluttered as much as an eyebrow. These days you're just allowed about six minutes on the trolley you've just been punctured upon, before you're left to your own devices and have to wander all lighted-headed to the tea and biscuits arena.

Ah yes - the tea and biscuits (although I always have hot chocolate). The perk to having a pint of vital fluid sucked from your left arm. The lengths I go to for even a sniff of a freebie.

Yesterday's donation was probably the easiest I've ever endured. My finger-prick globule of blood sank like a stone down the test-tube filled with unidentified green liquid and I was swiftly on the trolley and needle-ised and even that was relatively painless (and I have a few horrors at that - the odd trainee who's treated the inner crook of my arm like a pin-cushion in the search for that illusive vein).

Whilst I was waiting for my heart to do the necessary and pump the red juice from my ruptured vein, I had ample opportunity to think. And think is what I did, and of course about miriad subjects. And I came to a few conclusions and decisions.

Walked back to work after my hot chocolate and ginger cake and spent the afternoon feeling positively rotten. Another sign of my age I think - I used to be able to pass off a donation without any affect; indeed once less than an hour after one donation in my later twenties I was on a football pitch being crap in defence (as was the norm). These days I just feel desperately under the weather for the remainder of the day. So I just spent the evening with Ripley on my lap, watching whatever non-rubbish stuff I could lay my eyes upon, and ignoring everyone else.