Whassup blood?

Yesterday afternoon I trotted along the City streets to Aldermanbury, where, after the usual formalities, I gave a litre of my blood to the National Blood Service. I had been sitting on the seat, watching the proceedings and waiting to be called over, when a Blood Bank man walked up and called my name. Immediately and instinctively, I didn't want to go with him. He was in his thirties and outwardly showed very little sign of being incompetent. But there was something about him that worried me, a slightly flippant attitude, the casual way he tossed the clipboard onto his pile of blood extracting things. Irritatingly, much like the panic that overcomes one in the hairdressers when, even if one feels like ripping the scissors out of one's hairdresser's sweaty hand and stabbing him/her in the jugular for committing such a crime to barnetry, one has to smile sweetly, agree that one is truly beautiful now, coo gratefully and hand over much money, I found myself unable to say "Ummm, no. I don't like your manner. I'll wait for someone else to stick a fat needle in my arm, thanks." Instead, I mutely followed him to the bed, lay down, waited an inordinately long time for him to locate my clearly, pulsingly visible vein and tried not to wince too much as he scraped in his syringe thing. It was, for the first time, a bit painful. But I was still really glad I went, and, if you're in the UK, you should go too. They need you. And you get a sticker and free orange squash and biscuits and/or Hula Hoops. Plus you leave with a big plaster on your inside elbow and everyone knows you've saved a life. It's, like, totally worth it.