Right now my blood is pooling in a small plastic pouch, slowly rocking backwards and forwards as the anticoagulant prevents it from spoiling. It’s going to take a few minutes to draw the full unit. I’ll stand up, eat a chocolate bar and walk away.

Ok. It takes longer than that overall. You’ve got to tick lots of no’s on a big form, take a pinprick of blood and then wait for a seat. And after you have a plaster that aches if you try to bend your arm. Worst of all, the TVs are normally playing Jeremy Kyle or whatever personality the sphincter of modern culture has oozed out this week.

But then you’re done. The next day you’re fine. And somewhere, in a vast warehouse (probably staffed by homo nocturnus), there’s a little bit of your blood ready for when someone has a really shitty day in their life.

It’s good to see the NHS doing something really well. From the website to the staff, everything’s smooth. Instead of watching an episode of Game of Thrones, you could do something worthwhile.

Also, I seem to have flown before every visit. And the same will be true come July.