[Kariba]

Donating blood today is a long and tedious business. You’re subjected to about 30 minutes of tough interrogation by a Gestapo nurse before they even stick a needle in your arm. She’s trying to determine if you have ever bonked a bloke as part of a business transaction or shagged a sheep or had more than your fair share of success in the sack. A positive answer to any of her questions means your donation will be refused and you’ll be sent home in disgrace.

Things were much simpler when I was a young man. You turned up at the blood bank, showed them ID and a few minutes later you were reclining on the donation couch. There was an armrest extending sideways from the couch and you laid your arm on this so the nurse (nowadays they call her the “phlebotomist”-wtf?) can record your blood pressure.

So I’m lying there with my arm outstretched and hand resting palm up on the padded support. A good looking nurse with an excellent rack comes over, puts the pressure cuff on my bicep and pumps the bulb. She leans over to check the measurement, totally unaware that she is resting her lovely boob in the palm of my hand. “Hmmm,” she says, “your blood pressure is a bit high today. Do you know what’s causing that?” Damn right, I knew! I was trying to invent a story to prolong the moment, but my brain was overloaded and I couldn’t speak a word. Inwardly, I was saying to myself over and over again, “Lie still and don’t move a muscle. If you squeeze that lovely boob, you’ll go straight to jail.”