SOMETHING amazing happened the other day when I gave blood: I didn’t get talked at by the Fascist Bat Nurse as the ketchup drained into the boil-in-the-bag.
I first met the FBN as a student teacher. Pretty young angels held the hands and mopped the brows of other donors while I got Rosa Klebb’s granny in gold-rimmed specs and a blue rinse.
She was not unkind. Indeed, she was positively sympathetic when she discovered I was in teaching, as were her clones in times to come. Wasn’t it terrible the way children behaved today? No respect, bring back the belt, 10 years in the Army would do them the world of good and in our day we wouldn’t have behaved like that because a policeman would have given us a clip on the ear with the Daily Mail.
“You get some characters,” I would say weakly, desperate to be unplugged and released to the tea table, “but most of them are OK.”
Once I managed to outcliche her by blaming the parents. This was warmly received. I think I got an extra shot of local anaesthetic for that one.
In some ways I hope to be ministered to by the Fascist Bat Nurse again. It was nice, this time, to get the Holby City look-alike and her more spherical friend who over-apologised for giving me a minute scratch, but I feel duty-bound to set a few things straight. The kids I teach are far less self-centred than FBNs would like to believe. For a generation force-fed adverts and designer logos by adults, they do remarkably well.
Less prejudiced and with a massively greater knowledge of concepts like fair trade than I ever had at their age and for a long time afterwards, their sense of justice does them credit. Yes, I’m generalising but I think I’m entitled to. Goodness knows, I’ve been generalised at often enough while I’ve been staring at the ceiling tiles in Carluke District Hall or Edinburgh Uni’s Chaplaincy Centre, with a tube coming out of my arm.
Still unconvinced? Reckon I’ve been at the wine too soon after giving a pint? Let me give an illustration of this youthful consideration for others.
Recently, some older students were missing from my Higher computing class. When I saw them later in the day, they had tell-tale Elastoplast crosses on their arms. The blood transfusion service was in town and they had gone to donate. I hope they were met by friendly, liberal nurses.
Gregor Steele once caused a chaotic outbreak of fainting when his arm wasn’t bandaged properly.
