Blood brothers...

I am very proud to say that I give blood on a regular basis.  This was something which I started doing a couple of years ago, and several litres later, I'm still going strong.  Booking an appointment yesterday for my next withdrawal of the red stuff, the lady at the end of the phone asked me if I'd like to know where my blood had gone after it had left the building.  Well this was very exciting I can tell you.  Where would my blood end up?  I had visions of my B Rhesus- heading off in its thermal container, transforming the lives of poorly people all over the UK.  Giving her my mobile number so that they could send me a text, I asked her how specific it was.  Well not very, it turns out, as all I can expect is a text telling me which hospital it has ended up in.  But not to worry, as long as it's going somewhere which counts, then that's fine.

I remember the first time I went, and the disappointment at not being allowed a cup of tea and a biscuit after my first donation.  Apparently, that is a privilege reserved for those who come back a second time.  An incentive as it were.  I have made up for it since, playing the 'light-headed' card to obtain a second packet of custard creams on many an occasion.  Twelve donations down the line, and I am probably known to all the nurses as the lady with the custard cream fetish.  Could be worse, I suppose.  I could be into Bourbons, and how weird would that be?

Yesterday was one of those days I was quite glad to see the back off.  It reached its heady climax around 5.00pm as I walked into the lounge for the first time.  I had been walking the fuzzballs earlier in the afternoon and had been ambushed by a hailstorm, the likes of which Reg had never seen before.  If I had known what awaited me in the lounge, I may not have been so quick to use my scarf to dry him off, nor to cuddle his shaking body as he was so terrified.  No, I might have just left him on the path shivering with fear, whilst gloating quietly that I was dressed appropriately.

Getting home, I had to bath both dogs, as they looked like they had both had a fight with a large cowpat.  With that done, I gathered up a well deserved cup of tea, and headed into the lounge.  What awaited me resembled a stock take in a wool shop.  My beautiful purple rug had been shredded, and there were two feet long woolly snakes from the door to the sofa.  What was left of the rug had a central hole, and it became glaringly obvious that the calming tablets Reg is taking just ain't working.

Gathering up all the bits of rug, I laid them reverently into what was left and rolled it up for the husband to dispose of later.  It did cross my mind to roll Reg up with it and send him off to the tip too, but luckily for him, I have a forgiving soul (eventually).

But do you know the worst bit?  Once I had dragged the rug out and left it by the front door, I came back in with a fresh cup of tea to have another go at a 'sit down'.  Where my rug had been was the lovely grey carpet we had purchased three years ago.  But surrounding the rectangle island in the middle of the floor was a murky sea whose colour can only be described as filth.

I am booking the carpet cleaner in next week.  He can do the sofas while he's here too.  Basically, anything where the dogs have ever been.  It's either that, or I suppose there is one other option...

I'm going to need a bigger rug...