Blood

I'm going to give blood in a couple of hours. They hold monthly donor sessions at the nearby Queensbury centre, the former school, I believe, of Reginal Mitchell. He lived in the same house as where I get my hair cut too, by Mr Tony Capper esq. snipper to the gentry and discerning. Tony has Spitfire paintings on the wall, a copy of the census that shows Mitchell lived there for a couple of years and a plaque on the outside of the house that says "Reginald Mitchell lived here, once. Honest, he did!" Or something along those lines anyway. But, as is so often the case, I digress.

Blood. There's a question they ask you when you go: have you ever bruised or bled after a previous donation? Well this time my answer will be "Bloody hell, yes." Last time I went, I was sitting having my tea and biscuits in the rest room when Heather (the heiress and minder) pointed out that my arm was bleeding. I looked down to see blood pumping out of my forearm. A small pool had formed on the floor under my chair. I held my hand up and, apologising (why do we Brits apologise in situations like this?) to the nearest nurse, said I had a little problem.

While I sat there with several pairs of hands clamped around my forearm to stanch the bloodflow and someone mopped the floor and chair, Heather basked in all the extra attention. She got extra stickers, a balloon and sweeties. I got a wad of paper towels to dab at my blood-soaked trousers. Good job they were black, really.

Heather's at a party right now, at the playgroup Jill helps to run three days a week. I asked her if she wanted me to pick her up on the way to giving blood. Her eyes lit up. "Yes, please, Dad!"

I think she's hoping for a repeat performance of last time. I'm hoping she will be disappointed.