Many years ago, when I first started giving blood, I persuaded Maureen to come along with me to Coleraine Town Hall. She was willing enough but it wasn’t a success. The doc dealing with her (think he was being rehabilitated after giving up the booze) couldn’t find a vein, called for the lights to be put on and still couldn’t find a serviceable vein. We headed home with only me minus an armful, to paraphrase Tony Hancock.
Some time later, ever persistent, I persuaded Mo to have another go. It didn’t go well. I think they did manage to extract the requisite amount of blood but as we walked back to the car, she wobbled alarmingly and all but fainted. “Don’t tell Mum, don’t tell Mum,” I begged, presumably because she hadn’t been in favour of the expedition.
That was the end of that for the wee sister but yesterday I made my 70th donation and all being well I’ll match my age with the next donation, in March. There are people who have given well over a hundred times but I had a long period of not donating when I was doing a lot of travelling for work and I’m really chuffed to have managed to give so often. Also, it was great to see quite a few young people at the donation centre in Birmingham. The need is never-ending and we old dolls can’t keep giving for ever.
Don’t know how you clean the reflective panelling at Grand Central aka New Street Station but it shows bits of Brum in a different light.
It was blooming freezing when I woke up and when I saw my feet poking out from under the duvet, it reminded me of the big high-ceilinged flat in Edinburgh I shared with friends at uni. Poor Jean, my roommate, whose bed was on the opposite side of the room, used to see my feet poking out in the cold and couldn’t understand how I was still fast asleep. Obviously old habits die hard. I was an early adopter of the duvet (thanks to Dad for providing the dosh, money well spent) and have never reverted to sheets and blankets.
These musings – and the cold – kept me in bed for a while, making a mental list of friends to call or write to. Quite a few of them – even the ones I thought were indestructible and would live for ever – are not so well at the moment and I need to tell them that I love them and think of them often. Where are the magic potions and Harry Potter wands when you need them? What about the telephone? Ah, you may well ask!
Edinburgh reunion last year. Jean, who all too often woke up to the sight of my feet, is second from the right.
Where to go now? Golf I suppose. Or at least the podcast that is The Chipping Forecast, where Iain Carter (the permanent special guest) plays the Mo role in trying to keep golf to the fore as Eddie Pepperell and Andrew Cotter head off track into the boondocks and down tracks that have a Lewis-Carroll-sort-of vibe. Whatever Iain’s demons may be, should he have any, they are as nothing compared to those of his co-hosts. Quite often they make me feel almost normal.
Congrats to Andrew for starring this week on Richard Osman’s House of Games and belated congrats to Eddie on negotiating the dreaded Q-School successfully and regaining a European Tour card. Here’s hoping he works out how to enjoy most of his golf and racks up some good finishes…
I only went to Q-School once – to report on it I hasten to add – and despite all the amazing stories (mothers re-mortgaging their homes so their sons could follow their dream, that sort of thing) I hated it. Players I’d known for years were struggling and spending far too much time in the depths of despair staring at scoreboards as they saw their livelihood crashing around them; it was unutterably depressing.
As I recall, we stayed in an out-of-season, windswept concrete jungle of apartments in Montpellier, where the only restaurants open were pizza joints, so that didn’t add to the gaiety of the occasion. I’m sure it was marvellous in the summer, full of life and sunshine, with yachts, bronzed bodies, bars and fun galore but in late autumn it was dire.
Retief Goosen, who went on to have quite a career, including two US Open titles, won the event and he was so painfully quiet and shy that he could barely raise a smile let alone tell his tale. Mark Garrod, of the Press Association and a master of his craft, had to employ all his considerable skills to elicit a few bits and pieces of useable info from the young South African who, unsurprisingly, was much more at home on the course than in the press room.
The good thing was that he survived and thrived – and so did most of the players who lost their cards. Life just took a different turn.
Talking of turns (and twists), did you watch Scotland play Denmark at Hampden the other night? It was completely bonkers. Scots, who have to win to secure a place at the World Cup next year, go 1-nil up in no time with a brilliant overhead kick; Danes, who only need a draw, equalise with a penalty, then, minutes later, have a man sent off; Scotland score again; Danes, down to ten, equalise to make it 2-2; doom and gloom almost all round; in the 93rd minute Scots score another worldie; mayhem; in the 98th minute another Scottish worldie for 4-2; beyond mayhem; tears all round.
Football bloody hell indeed.
Now for The Ashes.
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