I bled, as if that wasn’t enough, more blood was squeezed out of me. I have never left a blood doning session with a sore and bruised finger. The donor support worker took a perverse delight in puncturing my finger with the little spring tool that pierces the layers of skin. He didn’t just depress the button, the guy also added more downward pressure to the darn needle. The red stuff was almost squirting out in a variety of directions from my poor abused digit. There was plenty of blood to roll the needle into and extract for the pre-doning test and the guy still squeezed for more.
If I spot that same blood seeker next time I decide to donate, I shall avoid him, let someone else enjoy the experience. Even today my finger is tender.
As for the actual donation of the pint, (only it’s in millilitres now) that was a doddle by comparison to the finger exercise. The assistant was a wee bit mean with the tape for securing the pressure pad where the needle had been. It was false economy as she soon found out.
Then I toddled off to the refreshments where cheery faces provided beverages of choice, (within reason) foamy marshmallow munchy things and shortbread biscuits.