Bloody Heck (or 'Coag-u-later' - it's tough when you have two equally lame titles)

A few months ago I donated my blood (well, as much as I could spare) for the sake of some important hospital-type research-thingy which was to establish blood-something average-whatsits (and to an equivalent extent for the sake of a free sandwich).

Then last Wednesday night I got a phone call from the National Centre for Hereditary Coagulation Disorders (to whom james-juice or a james-juice report had been passed by the original researchers – whoever they are) telling me that my blood indicated some ‘abnormalities’ and that they would 'advise' me to give a sample to be re-screened the following morning (they don’t believe in ‘letting the grass grow under em,’ as my dear mum might say); which I did – but there were no sandwiches this time. The sandwiches the frist time were crap anyway, so I actually didn't mind this so much.

They took quite a bit of blood (which strikes as a bit of mean thing to do to someone whom they suspect has a bleeding disorder), said that I would have to come in the following week for a fancier platelet test as well; and of course reassured me that I had little cause for concern until the full results are back… unless I cut myself any way seriously – in which case I should go ONLY to St. James’ Hospital and inform the staff that the 24-hour on-call NCHCD doctor should be called IMMEDIATELY.

Bloody Heck.

Now this is the kind of thing that could keep a fella up at night, so it’s a good job I respond to anything at all taxing by having a bit of nap. I’m not really a panicker, and like the nice medi-vampires say, I've little to worry about... yet. Also, I don't seem to have the symptoms they reckon I should have in any great abundance. So this isn't so much intended as a sympathy-evoking blog, but now that I've started I can see that it doesn't make much of a read on any level at all really unless you like stories about free sandwiches or if you didn't know how to spell coagulation.

I feel kind sleepy right now actually. I’ve been in the sigh-brary all bore-ning trying to study constitutional law; the most interesting fact I derived from which was that according to the English version of the 1937 constitution, the President has to be at least 35 years old, but according to the Irish version (which takes precedence despite the fact that it itself was supposed to be an accurate translation of the original English text) there is a typo which says that a candidate needs have to have completed their 35th year. Personally, I think both are about 30 years shy (one moreso than the other obviously)of what the actual figure should be. It’s the kind of job that’d suit an active retiree. I can’t imagine why anyone younger would want to spend their time cutting ribbons, smiling perfunctorily, and being paraded and shunted around like the winner of a beautiful baby competition… though I do like lollipops… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being a baby after all… oh wait… what was I?... zzz zzz zzz zzz.