21st February 2007

Damn New Zealand and it's "bad blood".


There are over 4 million people in New Zealand.



1.2 million (or something like that) live in Auckland and its suburbs.



I know of no disease or contagion that affects the indigenous population.



I am a regular O rh + blood group.*



So why have all of the mosquitoes in New Zealand had a conference on my forehead and upper torso? At least 17 independant bites have been found and only one mozzie squashed. I am like John Merrick. Looking for a flat with weeping sores running down my face is not giving me the advantage that my good looks, natural charm, tremendous wit and unmeasurable modesty usually afford me. No one wants a flatmate who, when smiling politely at one of there jokes, has plasma running into their eyes from a Krakatoa bulging from their hairline.

Why do we even have mosquitoes? the only reason I can think of is my theory about all flies. That God made cows and realized that they were all dead lazy by nature (hence the phrase..." you lazy cow ", circa 1237 BC)realizing that he had made an error when creating our bovine burger and milkshake combo, he introduced the insect versions of Gypo's round a skip (Latin name Annoyous bastardos) so that the cow would get a little bit of tail swishing exercise. Well thank you god. I am now a takeaway in flip flops. I have mastered walking in them by the wway without resorting to monkey fist like feet.



*I am o rh + (the most common group) but I have a little story about why my blood is "special".

About 1998, living and working in Whitby, I went to give blood to the mobile blood transfusion service van that comes over from Leeds periodically. I gave my pint and went about my way looking forward to the imminent bank holiday weekend.

I returned home from work on the Friday to a answer phone message that went as follows, in a thick Asian accent.

"This is a message for Mr Daniel Siron. It is the Leeds Blood centre here. We have an urgent message for you. It is about your recent blood donation. We need to speak to you immediately. It is very important. Thank you."

What are you to make of that little gem? I rang the Leeds Blood centre only to find everyone had gone home for the weekend. The bank holiday weekend. The LONG bank holiday weekend. So I spent Friday, Saturday and Sunday panicking about what nasties they might have found in my blood that made it "URGENT" that I get in touch with them. Although it is unlikely in the extreme that I have contracted something nasty from anywhere, your mind starts to play tricks on you. What about the glasses in the pubs I have been drinking in? Can you catch AIDS from a toilet seat? What if I ate a sandwich made from a pig that had been sleeping around?

OH MY GOD! i AM GOING TO DIE!!!!!!!!!

The Blood Centre don't contact people to tell them that their blood is some of the nicest they have had and thank you. They don't call up and compliment you on the aroma of your platelets. This can only be bad news. And to make it worse I can't even call them on Monday! God is not only punishing me for something in a past life by infecting me with some kind of body rotting, penis shrivelling, eye blinding, stinking disease, but the cruelest of creators is making me wait an extra day to find out how long I have left! I might be dead by the time Tuesday comes!

4 sleepless nights later I call the number. I am weakened by the mytery disease by now and can barely hold the phone to my ear, the good ear that still works. I am certain the other is dropping off and only hears the sound of the grim reapers cloak dragging over my hallway carpet. Dry lipped and bleary eyed I push through the pain barrier as every digit aches, nay excruciatingly stabs, as I press the phones digits. Weeping uncontrolably from the stess, strain, stench and pain of this silent killer, I hear a voice at the end of the phoneline. Asked to repeat my request as my near death voice struggles to communicate, I ask for help. Eventually I am put through to the correct department. They must have been expecting my call. They must have a crew on standby for just this emergency. The MUST have a Ferrari ready to zoom out and deliver me to quarantine for my final and most contagious hours. My family would already be at the military guarded clinic, trying to keep a brave face on things. They don't ask too many questions. They love me and that is all that matters. They don't actually want to touch me but they love me all the same. Well I am sure they would say that when they get back from the cafeteria. Grief hits people in different ways and I am not selfish. If they need a pepperoni pizza to get them through these dark hours, then how can I increase their pain?

The voice at the other end of the phone sounded suprisingly positive. I suppose they are trained to deal with death on a daily basis. But wait....! What is this? I am not diseased? There must be some mistake! I had the call! What do you mean I am perfectly healthy? Check your records again, young lady! I am dying and I won't hear a word against it! What? A baby is going to be born in the next couple of days and it has a rare blood factor? I am one of only 2 people in Yorkshire with that factor? Even the mother doesn't have this rare factor and you need me to be on stand by in case there are complications? But I am o rh+, everyone has the same blood as me!

It turns out that I was not dying. I wasn't remotely ill. My parents weren't on standby. They weren't even eating pizza, let alone pepperoni. There was a baby being born, as above, in St James hospital and, although I have the most common blood group, I also have a very rare factor in it too. Crisis averted. But what was that message all about? Talk about panic over nothing! I didn't know whether to laugh or shout at the Leeds Blood Centre! I opted to go have a few pints! After all I deserved it. I HAD just nearly died, hadn't I?