This does not paint me in a good light, hence a few pictures of Dog at the end to ease the guilt…
I’ve always considered myself to be a fairly generous soul. Magnanimous. Not given to fits of envy…
In these lockdown times when we are admonished to stay at home as much as possible, there are few legal reasons to get out and about so one needs to be creative.
The Textiliste is nothing if not creative. “Let’s give blood.”
Now, for all sorts of reasons, good and bad, I’ve never donated before and the Textiliste hasn’t for several years. “Why not?”
The nearest blood doning centre is in Tooting, in South London near where we had our first flat together. It was all very efficient and easy and we felt very covid secure as we exsanguinated an arm each, had our biscuit and drove home with the glowing self satisfaction of a job well done.
That’s when it began. The next day, she received a text thanking her for attending. Texts on my phone have become a bit erratic so I didn’t think anything of my lack of a text of thanks.
A day or so later it was an email. Then a call and another email. She was being swamped with information about when she could next give, how they’d contact her, what they were doing with her blood, how it was being treated and tested. Her blood was sent to a hospital in Norfolk, a tracker was supplied, much like an Amazon parcel. She was sent a video taking her through the steps that her blood had been subjected to. They’ll organize a doorstep clap for it soon…
Me? Not a word.
Her blood, type O negative is of course the universal standard. Everyone can have her blood. That was made very clear. Me, I’m type common, plasma for the plebs. She’s a gold card donor. They’ll put her name on the doning couch for next time, a star above her canula. I’ll be in the crowd scene.
I mean, I understand she’s special but where’s the harm in sending out one little thank you for coming… it would stop me seeing red.
I am officially pathetic. Hence the balm of Dog in his snazzy coat