Serene saintliness

There's a big Blood drive on at the moment, and today I went along to the West Cork Hotel to donate. The Pelican People had my records from Dublin donations many moons ago; afternoons when you'd linger in Pelican House and enjoy a pint or two of guinness, crisps, chocolate - it always seemed a special place, filled with treaty things.

After a zillion questions, the iron level check was the first stop: the Iron Nurse squodges a blood droplet onto a slide and slots it into a red machine. Three of us (there's also a Watcher present) watch the machine. We wait. I try to calculate the last time I ate red meat. We wait some more. I wonder if there's any iron in popcorn, last night's dinner. Nursey-watches are consulted; it's apparently taking longer than usual. Finally there's a read-out. It says 16.2. I don't know how bad this is. "Jesus," says Iron Nurse to the Watcher, "great levels today". It's a fine result (apparently 12 is a low indicator). I'm all ironed-up. Good to go.

On to the gurney: blood pressure time. My entire life, blood pressure tests have elicited the same response: "You must be very fit". No, I sometimes try to explain, no I'm really not. Might there be something - a condition - whose symptoms are the appearance of fitness? It's the same today (although at the moment I'm probably reasonably fit, thus further hiding the condition that's already disguised). The Needle Inserter Nurse comes along, surveys the forms and the read-outs. "You're very relaxed," she says, "All good". And so we begin. By the end of the session I'm a smidge too relaxed: I have to uncross my legs and squeeze one of those rubber stress-balls to encourage signs of life.

There's nothing like donating blood to make you feel like a saint!