‘It’s such a shame,’ said the nurse as she turned me away from the donation centre, and I realised my assumptions about being O-negative were all wrong
I
’ve flexed before about having the world’s best blood type: O-negative. For some reason, all niceties around boasting vanish in the face of this natural-born superiority. If the “first-responder” rubber bracelet they sent me matched any of my clothes (how could it? It’s the colour of blood), I would definitely wear it everywhere I go.
Last week, though, for the third time, I got turned away from donating because my iron wasn’t high enough. It was low only by a margin, and this is normally acknowledged as just natural human variation, but they operate quite a strict three-strikes rule, and now I can’t even present my (also pretty superior) veins again for a full two years.
The nurse shook her head. “It’s such a shame, what with you being …” “Right? O-negative! How many people could you say that about?” “Well, a fair amount,” she said, “probably everyone else in here; you’re the ones we’re always calling. Do you sleep well?” I considered this. I sleep incredibly well, but not for very long, preferring, broadly speaking, the time I spend awake. You can’t grow up in a Thatcherite era without imbibing some ideas, and I decided as a teenager that five hours a night was the right amount. It’s relatively harmless; at least I don’t want to privatise anything.
