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I had the age old dilemma today of whether to intentionally put myself through discomfort in a bid to save a life. Bit dramatic I'm sure you'll agree, but as the television keeps telling me if I give blood I am, in essence a lifesaver. Every six months a very attractive young lady comes into my office and asks me if I'd like to donate part of my soul and not wishing to be seen as a wimp I manfully reply "Of course, I'm a regular". This is true but every time I sign the forms I'm instantly transported to the back seat of my Dad's VW Polo, circa 2000.
Turning sixteen I thought I'd follow in my Dad's footsteps and become a walking blood bank, saving more lives than the airbag. The first outing didn't go to plan however. Looking at my lanky frame the nurse asked repeatedly if I was sure I could cope without a sixth of the sticky red stuff. She may not have been attractive, but my Dad was there so once again not wishing to be a wimp I manfully replied "Yeah sure". Worried for my health they sneakily only took ¾ of a pint and kept me behind for longer than normal.
Unfortunately none of this made a jot of difference as five minutes after leaving I found myself out of my mind on the back seat of that VW Polo. Anyone familiar with Hunter S Thompson's magnum opus Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas will relate to me when I said the road ahead turned into a black abyss and the walls of the car seemed to be closing in on me. I made it to the front door of my grandparents before collapsing through it, thankfully being caught by my granddad and even more thankfully not causing him a heart attack.
So today, despite being a double figures donator I always get a wee bit sweaty under the collar when I make the trip from relaxing office, to a room with people strewn left and right with more needles than a Guns 'N' Roses reunion. Today was even worse. Not content with taking the usual pint, extra was taken to be sampled for my compatibility as a bone marrow match. As I write this the computer screen keeps closing in and the house looks untidy. Perhaps the second one is pushing your sympathy.
Spare a thought for my mate who is built like $@&% and is a Territorial Army member who proclaimed: "If my fiancé can give birth last week, I can give blood for the first time". I thought it odd when I left that he didn't respond to me from the precariously high 'recovery' beds they had for us. That lack of response was followed by the loudest thump I've heard a human make as he fell unconscious onto the floor. Blimey, there has to be an easier, less painful way to save life than this surely. I believe there is and Volkswagen is once again inexorably linked.
The VW Polo isn't just a safety advertisement but a genuinely good supermini.
Pete Ridgard is a writer and a car enthusiast. Here he discusses the VW Polo
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