I love Christmas. I love birthdays. I basically love everything that means we get to celebrate positive things so sometimes I even like to celebrate Wednesdays, the occasional Tuesday and at a push Monday mornings about 10am.

I even love the wrapping of gifts, the giving of gifts and the sheer conspicuous consumptive glee that comes with knowing that Santa may have bought somebody a Barbie campervan and somebody else the Baby Alive doll that they wanted MOST OF ANYTHING EVER. Because Santa is a soft touch and doesn’t care who knows it.

Plus – we make our children give away unwanted toys still in splendid nick (see what I did there) before their birthdays and Christmas to people that might not have the same opportunities as them, which has the dual purpose of actually being a good thing to do and assuaging some of the Catholic guilt that sits alongside conspicuous consumptive glee.

Nobody is ever purely altruistic.  Altruism generally makes you feel good so it can’t be entirely altruistic.  The conundrum eh? The sheer bloody conundrum of revelling in capitalistic opportunity while being a bleeding heart lefty do-gooder.

Speaking of bleeding…. *

This month in addition to celebrating making it to 41 years of age despite all the excellent decisions I have made throughout my life (sarcasm peeps, sarcasm), I also racked up 25 years of blood donations. I know. They sent one of the admin guys to thank me personally and give me a second milkshake during my last donation so I’m winning on all fronts really.

Back in the olden days, my mother celebrated all of our sweet sixteen birthdays by taking us out, getting us free milkshakes and making us donate a pint of our blood. Meaning that all of us have an impressive array of needle-marks in the crease of our left arms that could have us featuring us as a headline in The Daily Telegraph should they get desperate for click bait.

That said, I look back at the 25 years of blood donations in three different countries, bar gaps for breeding, malaria medication, tattoos, navel piercing and the odd operation, and I’m pretty pleased with myself. There is something very satisfying about donating blood – it feels useful in a way that very few other things do.

They haven’t taken my whole blood for a while, so to make sure I still get my milkshakes, I have been giving plasma which has the added bonus of making you feel a bit high and letting you have a small morning nap every fortnight as they pump blood in and out of your arm which is a positive result for everybody I feel.

Even though I am O negative. BOOM TISH.

Oh come on, that was funny. And it’s basically the best blood in the world because everybody can have it so even my blood type supports my utopian socialist views.  No wonder I’m annoying.

But the irony (honestly – I’m punning all over the place today) is that the period of gleeful capitalist consumption is also the time when blood supplies become most critical.  And so on the night before Christmas (well actually the morning), I’m taking my arm into the blood bank and giving them a bag of my finest.

Which should free up space nicely for conspicuous consumption of food and alcohol the next day.

It really is the gift that keeps on giving!

Take this as the least subtle hint I’ve EVER made. #notsponsored #iamjustannoying

* I freely acknowledge the breathtakingly brazen laziness of such a segue – many apologies

If you want to see more of what goes on when I’m not writing this blog
follow me on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram

And sign up HERE to become a Franklophile and get the newsletter