Blood. Spain. Me.
Where’s this going?
I don’t know.
Hot blooded. That’s what they say of the Spanish. Or Mexicans come to think of it. Or Italians. Basically anyone south of Brighton. It’s an awful cliché of course. A stereotype; it conjures images of fraught love trysts, fighting in the streets, bull rings, criminality and…well, blood.
This week I have had to jump through another couple of (relatively painless) bureaucratic hoops because I need to go to a doctor in the extracción department and give a sample of mine. If I’m to continue on my current medication then my blood is going to have to behave itself. Levels of this and that must remain stable. I need my blood to remain placid, tranquil, cool – so I must go along to my new, hot-blooded doctor for an analítico.
I have visions of a hairy chest beneath the stained white coat, a bowl of olives on the desk which also supports his feet as he puffs away on a fat cigar. From somewhere beneath his handle-bar moustache he tells me my blood is “muy bueno”, emits a deep belly laugh and charges me a fortune.
It won’t be like that of course because that’s just nasty-minded xenophobic stereotyping, fun as it is.
Also, according to the appointment card I’ve been given, her name is Beatriz.
aahnahleeteeko – the Spanish make even a blood test sound like something delicious, something garlicky that once lived in the sea and now comes with dipping bread. Extracción sounds like something exquisite you’d be served in a late night bar in Basque country. It’s a language of flavour, of – dare I say it – passion. Of love, of drama.
English? Not so much. Ours is a language of trade:
“I’d like a packet of crisps please”.
“Cheese and Onion or Salt and Vinegar?”.
“Salt and Vinegar please”.
“That’ll be seventy pence”.
Not the same, is it?
I’ve already given quite a bit of blood this week. I don’t believe there’s been a night where I haven’t, following lights out and the descent of silence, flicked them back on again as I leap out of bed in a mindless, psycopathic fit of impotent rage.
Mosquitos have a way of making you feel like King Kong, clinging for dear life to the Empire State building as they swoop and dive around your ear with their maddening high-pitched whine. K sleeps through it (infuriatingly), but once I have been made aware of their presence, sleep is not a possibility.
On my side is the fact that our bedroom walls and ceiling are pure white – with a bit of luck and determination – not to mention patience – I can spot them. Once I have, they die. I’m sorry to sound so ruthless but we are talking here about a creature bereft of any redeeming features. If you know of one there is a comments section below. Enlighten us why don’t you.
They also have a gift for making one feel foolish – less intelligent, in fact, than a mosquito. I haven’t counted the number of times this week that I have slapped myself in the face. Hard. Trust me though – it’s a big number.
At the very least it has provided K with some entertainment. When I have one of the little monsters in my sights it doesn’t follow that she has. Each night therefore she has been presented with the spectacle of her apoplectic boyfriend (who bear in mind prefers to sleep au natural) leaping around the room punching and slapping the air like one of those madmen you see in the street shouting at the traffic.
“Got it! Oh, no, wait a minute….”
“There it is! No….”.
Picture it. No wait a minute – don’t.
With my analítico looming I realise now how stupid I have been – the blood spats of my little murder victims are testimony to their own extraction skills. I should have been collecting them in a jar. I’m sure I would have had enough by now.
“Morning, Beatriz. There’s your f**king sample”.