In which I get felt up by a stranger (not okay.)

‘Helloooooooo?’

‘Be
right with you, darlin’,’ a portly chap with a shaved head said from behind a
makeshift desk. We stepped away from the portable blood donation station and enjoyed
the low winter sunshine, both gazing up to the sky with eyes closed. It was
nice to be out from behind my own desk.

‘They
film Dragon’s Den up there.’ I opened my eyes. The man walked down the tiny van
steps, pointing at the next building. ‘Got an appointment?’

My
friend nodded and handed him her paperwork. He looked at me.

‘I
don’t have an appointment, BUT I spoke to a lovely Irish lady on the telephone
and she said to come on down and that likely you lovely lot would be able to
accommodate me because you’re brilliant like that.’

‘That
right?’ the man said, amused.

‘You
look like the chap that can,’ I said. ‘Am I able to donate? Can you make it
happen?’

I do
this thing when I am trying to get my own way, when I’m putting on a performance.
The Laura Show. I put on a posher
voice and curtsy a little bit and make big hand gestures. Bit like Russell
Brand.

He
instructed my friend to go in the van and take a seat, and told me he’d see what he
could do, if I insist. ‘Oh, I do!’ I
laughed. ‘Thank you so much.’ I told
him I’d wait on the bench, and to call me over when he was ready to assist me
in saving lives. I sat and watched the world go by.

‘OI!
You coming or what?’

I
turned to the van. The man was waving for me to come over. I stood up. I don’t
know how much time had passed.

‘You
were in a world of your own then,’ he said when I reached him.

‘It’s
lovely here,’ I said.

He
said, ‘I’ve got you an donation slot.’

‘You’re
my new favourite,’ I said.

I
followed him inside and sat down beside his desk so he could check my details.
We made small talk. I told him I write and that I worked around the corner and
it’d been ages since I last donated. He told me about a mugging he’d seen
yesterday on Oxford Street, and about what a busy day he’d had.

Then
he said, ‘Well this is a lovely coat, isn’t it?’

I was
wearing my long black fluffy thing. He reached his sausage-like fingers out
toward me, looking me in the eye, and his heavy hand landed on the top of
my arm, just below my shoulder. His touch surprised me. I froze. It didn’t feel
right. My instinct told me so. He ran his hand down the fur of the jacket,
towards my hands, in my lap, and as I recoiled- mildly, so as not to cause
offence- his hand landed on my knee and gave a little squeeze.

The
way he did it made me want to throw up.

I
blinked hard and fast, quick, over and over, as if my eyelids were the washers
of my memory and like a car window all I had to do was rubrubrub at his penetrating gaze burnt into the back of my brain
and it would be erased.

I
focused my stare out of the open door directly in front of me. Don’t make a fucking scene.

He
asked me for my name, address, and date of birth. My voice sounded light,
breezy. I continued to look out of the door because I didn’t know what I would
do if he made eye contact. He asked for my phone number, so they could reach me
if there was a problem.

It’s my own fault, I thought. I flirted with him. I made him think it was
okay to touch me like that.

Another
voice in my imagination roared. DON’T BE A FUCKING IDIOT. HE IS A HEALTH CARE
PROFESSIONAL. YOU COULD STAND NAKED WITH YOUR TITS ON FIRE FOR HIM AND PAWING
AT YOU LIKE THAT STILL WOULDN’T BE OKAY.

It’s my own fault.

Suddenly
we were finished, and I had to go into the private booth to be asked the
personal questions that they have to ask, the ones about sex and travel, and
test my blood for iron. I stood up, ready to be greeted by the next nurse. To
be away from the man who had made my heart thump and eyes water and throat
tight.

I’ll get this one, he said, and then we were
squashed into a room no bigger than a stationary cupboard, and he said to me, Just got to ask you again: name, address,
date of birth. Then he chuckled and said, oh, and vital statistics.

I
don’t know why I didn’t scream at him. Yell. Storm out and tell everyone in the
centre what he had done to me, what he was saying to me. Maybe he didn’t mean
it like that. Maybe he didn’t mean to touch me high on my knee, to make me
blush, to say provocative things.

It’s my own fault.

I’d
smiled, I’d cajoled, I’d flattered.

It’s my own fault.

I
wish I had said something. For the next girl. But I didn’t. I blamed myself. It’s my own fault.

It
wasn’t my fault though. Now he’s not here, I know that. I'm ashamed that I wasn't braver at the time. 

*update 07/03/13*
I’ve since filed an official complaint
with the National Blood Service, who have proved themselves to be ‘effing
amazing. Supportive, communicative, and totally transparent about how they are
proceeding with their investigation. I will absolutely continue to give blood,
as the fault of one man (bad) isn’t reflective of the organization as a whole
(good).

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