Assessed writing.

When Dan asks me to write some songs for our collaborative album, writers block immediately sets in. I can be averaging on five songs a day and as soon as I'm asked to write, the words just stop.

Pretty much the same thing has happened again, and as a consequence it's been a month and a half since I've blogged here.

Bernie Russell, one of the lecturers here who I still haven't got my head around (the first time I met him, he went around the room in a 300-esque 'What is your profession?!' manner asking everyone what their interests are. This is not Sparta, Bernie) asked us to write in an assessed blog for six weeks, and since then, I have visited this page pretty much every day, yet written a total of 0 times.

If you would, however, like to check out my incredibly forced girly music news blog, which I am handing in to be assessed tomorrow, please feel free to leave me a comment as it may gain me a mark or two. It can be found at http://musonuso.wordpress.com. Or you can just click on that link, I suppose.

A word of warning.

Roanna, Jen, George and I are sitting up to the kitchen table. It's a Sunday evening. We are eating possibly the best roast dinner I have had in a long time.

"I'm giving blood next Monday," says Roanna.

I shudder at the thought of the blood, the needles and the hospital.

"Oh right, who's going with you?" asks Jen.

"Well no one's around. So I'll probably go by myself."

"You can't go by yourself!" say the rest of us.

Skip forward to yesterday morning.

Roanna knocks on my door.

"Are you still okay to come with me to give blood?"

I'd totally forgotten I'd volunteered myself. I'd had 5 hours sleep and a 3 hour workshop. Outside the ground was icy and I knew Steep Hill would be treacherous.

"Yep."

We spent half an hour climbing through the snow and the slush before finally reaching the hospital. My wellies had rubbed a nice red blister on the back of my heel. The hospital smelt like my Grandparents' house and I instantly wanted to leave.

If you know me, you know I am feeble. Very good at arm wrestles, very good at saying no to things, quite good at public speaking. Incredibly weak at almost everything else. I see blood, I faint. I told Roanna last Sunday, and she thought I was exaggerating. I was not.

I sat down in the waiting area, which looked more like the collection point at Argos. Roanna went off to have her finger pricked. I felt sick. A video of an animated blob of blood riding a train was playing on a computer screen near me. I went to the liberty of reading a booklet which had been placed on a nearby chair. And then I looked up. Big mistake. My head spun. Pink dots appeared before my eyes. Everything sounded underwater.

I staggered over to some nurse. I was pretty sure she was a nurse but nothing was focused. "Can I have a drink please? I feel faint." She looked at me like I had three eyes.

"You look dreadful..." she said, in a rather shocked tone, before pushing me onto a (very uncomfy) hospital bed. Yes, I was put on a bed before Roanna was.

When I came around I had cold flannels on my head and neck. Some old woman was hovering over me with a plastic cup filled with lemonade. I hate lemonade. I drank the whole thing, trying not to look disgusted, and burst into tears. It was one of the strangest and most embarrassing moments of my life.

Here is a word of warning to anyone who needs a hospital trip any time soon:

DO NOT TAKE ME. I am a liability! I will steal your bed!

A brief update.

Over the past few weeks I have taken up knitting, walked through some snow, somehow acquired an interview slot with Dave McPherson and Ben whatchamacallit from InMe, given up knitting and, surprisingly, not failed law.