Saturday, 4 March 2017

Tighten up...

I gave blood yesterday. This is Bird Speak for troughing my way through copious packets of custard creams after having a lie down for ten minutes.  In all fairness, I did show a little restraint, restricting myself to one packet of custard creams and a Mint Club, but I still got the glare from a couple of ladies sharing the post donation table with me.  I think that I possibly bypassed the donor etiquette rule of 'one packet per person', but as my blood is a very rare one, surely I deserve more biscuits that the commonplace 'O' donors?  Just saying....

I had to go to a different hall to give blood today, and I had the misfortune to come in behind rather a strange lady.  If you've given blood before, you will know that you tend to travel from chair to bed to chair with the same person.  Waiting for the nurses to call us, she sat down next to me, and launched into the obvious question of how many donations had I done to date.  I smiled at her and said that I wasn't too sure, but probably somewhere between ten and twelve.  She had done a lot more than me (naturally) and she then carried on the conversation by telling me that women aren't allowed to give blood as often as men for obvious reasons. 

Nodding, I wondered what on earth she was implying.  Perhaps women, who are naturally on the go more than men, and who give small pieces of themselves daily to whoever demands it, can't afford to lose too much of the red stuff for fear they might keel over and be no use to anyone ever again.  Turns out it's because (in her words) as woman we lose a pint a month on our own.  A pint?!  I wasn't sure that was right. Anyway, she was called over to the bed so I had no time to question her on this, and I had to look it up when I got home - turns out it's 40ml, about a seventh of a pint, so she was way out.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting at the table with my beloved custard creams making small talk with the funny (funny ha-ha, not funny peculiar) pink-haired nurse, when all of a sudden, the Oracle was there at my left shoulder again.  'How come you got here before me, when I was done first?' she asked.  Oh great, now she's the Blood Police.  I replied that my veins were always very keen to offload so it never took very long.  'I bet you were moving your hands about to make it go that fast', she said in an accusing tone.  'No actually', I said. 'I am more of a buttock clencher to be honest'.

And then she came out with the comment which could well have resulted in being laid out on the floor seeking a blood transfusion of her own...

'Well at your age, I suppose you can't do too many pelvic floor exercises'.

Now, correct me if I am wrong, but the buttocks are some distance from the pelvic floor and I believe (please don't quote me on this) that different muscles are needed to hoist them up to the right position.  I was going to correct her, but the indignation I felt at the fact that she assumed that my pelvic floor resembled a well used baggy hammock rather than a taut trampet was enough to make me turn my back on her and continue with my small talk with the nurse.  She gave me a look which said that she completely understood my need for violence, but her gentle hand on my shoulder said it all...

'Don't start'...

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