Go with the flow

“It started with a kiss / Never thought it would come to this” – “this” being lying on my back, feeling faint, listening to Hot Chocolate on the radio, having had a bagful of lifesap voluntarily drained from my arm. How on earth did I allow my girlfriend to persuade me into giving blood?

Of course, it’s our civic duty as responsible citizens, and if I would be prepared to accept a blood transfusion if I needed it then it’s only right that I should donate myself – but then I have a bit of a phobia of needles following some bad childhood experiences, and I’d heard some horror stories of donations gone wrong. The overriding sensation is one of apprehension.

Having had my initial objections peremptorily swatted away, and my finger pricked to test for suitability, I find myself being clucked and fussed over by the female version of the Chuckle Brothers, who upon the sight of my left arm suddenly turn into a gaggle of vampiric haemo-goblins intent on gorging themselves – “Oooh, he’s got good veins”.

The moment the needle pierces the skin doesn’t hurt so much. What does hurt, though, is having it lodged in my vein for the best part of ten minutes, feeling as though it’s pinning my limb to the bed. And then it’s over.

The song which follows ‘It Started With A Kiss’ is Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out For A Hero’. Walking down New Street I don’t feel like a hero – quite the opposite, in fact. There’s no pride or satisfaction – not yet, at least – just relief that it’s over, a dull ache in my arm and the realisation that actually I’m a bit of a wuss.