A bloody business


Other people – ‘organised people’, we might call them – have two email addresses. They have the one to which Facebook delivers a message to inform them that they have a message (meta-messaging?), and the one they write down on forms that require official interaction. Not that officials really do require it, but in the interests of filling up databases and impressing idiots with expressions like data capture, they would like it very much. So much so that they’ll often put a little red asterisk beside the box because then your request will be unprocessed until you have coughed up yet another way to be pestered.

Anyway, these ‘organised people’ have a different account to divert all the crap out of the Phrygian stables and into a separate septic tank. Not me. I keep it all in one giant slurry pit, so that all the stuff about lecture changes, dinner on the 17th, and what are you doing on Saturday? can bob about with turds like Amazon recommends and 50 extra bonus points this week only. In my defence, if I had set up a separate account then I wouldn’t know that I could save $$$ by buying RealViagra from GenuinePfizer, nor that Big Penis is like Expensive Car (No, honestly! I kept that one for ages because it made me ponder the ways in which that could possibly be true 1. It depreciates the minute you get it off the forecourt? 2. It’s too precious to take out anywhere, it’s really only for looking at? 3. Every Sunday you buff it slowly in front of the neighbours to make them jealous? – it’s like a smutty Mind Gym).

Which brings us, naturally and inevitably, to blood donation. I don’t remember this, but I must have given my email address when I filled in the form about donating. It is coming up for two years ago, and I still haven’t shared a drop of my precious liquor. I tried a few times but they kept cancelling the appointment – on three occasions, as I recall – and I don’t like to be divisive, but I put that down to those layabouts in the public sector. I tell you, if blood collection was done in the private sector and financially incentivised – not necessarily the donors, but the collection centres – you can bet your arse they’d have had me in, hung up by the heels and drained white, within minutes of smiling at the receptionist.

However, they seem to have upped their game. Earlier this week I got a letter that carried the reproachful air of a disappointed young teaching assistant ‘We are sorry that you have not yet been able…’. Next day I got an email. ‘Whenever it is convenient we will be glad to…’ Day after that, a text arrived. A text! On my phone! ‘We need blood!’ Ohreallyisthatright? Well, so do I, so gerroff!

It’s got to the stage where I’m wondering if there are goths in scrubs waiting behind doors to throw a net and drag me off to be siphoned. Will I be queuing in the post office, only for someone to sneak up and stab me in the thigh with one of those things they use to get the syrup out of maple trees? Will I be punched in the nose by a stranger and told to bleed into a bucket? I know I should donate. Yes, I KNOW I should. But the fact that I have tried three times and been messed about when I’m not too terrifically sodding keen in the first place, makes me resent the implication that I’m not pulling my weight. Could that be called a blood libel, do you think? There’s a lot of it about, apparently.


One Response to “A bloody business”

  1. 1 me@gmail.hotmail.yahoo.co.uk.com

    I was going to email you on the subject, but I wasn’t sure where to send the message to … …. …

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