Today, I didn't run.
I’d had a call from the blood donation service, asking when I could next donate. It’s great to feel needed, and if only 7% of the population are A Rhesus negative and I’ve got gallons (well, one anyway) of the stuff pumping through my veins, it’s no hardship to give a pint, is it? I’d hoped to be able to fit in a run between seeing clients and giving blood, but somehow time leached away from me. So on this sunny, crisp afternoon, instead of running across the Heath and dipping in the icy pond, I was lying on a bed in Fitzrovia, central London, surrounded by strangers, as my life blood flowed into a plastic bag.
It might sound grisly if you’ve never done it, but I have to confess that I actually love giving blood. Not in a Twilight, vampiro-erotic, kind of way (Robert Patterson just isn’t my type.) Before every donation you are required to fill in a form that asks impertinent questions such as: Since your last donation have you had sex with anyone who has ever injected drugs? or Since your last donation have you been given drugs or money for sex? Crikey, what a dull little life I must lead. Oddly I'm never asked 'Have you ever been bitten on the neck by a man with overdeveloped canines?' Though that would be a 'No', too.
What I love about giving blood is the sense of doing something completely altruistic for someone I don’t know, and being surrounded by other people who are all doing the same. The NHS staff are patient and welcoming, and no–one ever complains if they are kept waiting. There is a wonderful ‘all in it together’, Blitz spirit about the experience, especially afterwards, drinking tea and eating custard creams together. And then we all slip away feeling secretly heroic, having done something really rather marvellous.
Just after leaving the donation centre, I spotted a little church set back from the road and, channelling my mother who could never pass a church without taking a look, nipped inside.
It was exquisite, every surface covered with tiles, carvings and inlaid marble. I sat in the pews absorbing the unexpected peace and beauty. Behind a pillar a man rocked gently, possibly asleep, and a young man in a builder’s hi-viz tabard came in taking off his hat as he entered, lit a candle and sat, head bowed, in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. It was impossible to imagine that this oasis of tranquillity was just a stone’s throw from Oxford Circus – where shoppers were rummaging for bargains through the rails of Primark and Top Shop.
As we sat there in companionable silence, the chilly air fragrant with incense, an unseen organist began to practice The Glory of the Lord from The Messiah, playing the phrases over and over again, pausing and repeating, the organ pipes wheezing. Strangely, hearing all the concentration that went into playing Handel’s glorious music was more intimate and moving than if it had been played all the way through, note perfect.
Sometimes it’s the stopping and starting and wheezing and not getting it quite right that make us really appreciate when everything goes beautifully.
Just like running, really.
, such an easy thing to do for others. And I like the tea and biscuits too!
Busy busy track and a fall☹️
The Perks of being a C25Ker (and no that's not a euphemism :) )
LYCRA BOTTOMS, PONYTAILS...YES! IT'S PARKRUN!!!
W6 R2
Bad preparation and planning
