Any signs of life...?

I spent yesterday on a first aid course. My fellow students were all men, and as they were all involved in manual trades, we had to learn what to do in the event of an amputated digit. Being an office worker, I hoping that the most serious thing I’ll have to cope with is a nasty paper cut or broken nail.

However, the best thing about the course was our instructor, Margaret. Margaret was in her late fifties, and was very matronly. She had the kind of shelf-like bosom that I hope to cultivate when I get to her age, which was coupled with a slight dowager’s hump and very skinny legs. The majority of my fellow students were chavs in their early twenties. They found it highly amusing when the air escaped from the Annie dolls and made a farting noise. Needless to say, Margaret did not. She was not going to suffer any giggling on her watch.

As I didn’t know anyone else there, I had no shame in showing off and eagerly (and smugly) answering any questions asked. This lead to Margaret having to say, “Come on now, this lady’s answering all of the questions, we need some answers from this side of the room”. In my defence, one of the first things Margaret had taught us was that in any situation, we were the most important people.

I am now very confident in resuscitation and CPR, but struggle with a sling. My bandaging is exceptionally neat though, and I have proved that, should somebody knock their varicose vein, I can also bandage very quickly. As Duck had done first aid twenty years ago in the Boy’s Brigade, we had an argument last night on the correct way to put somebody into the recovery position. Having every confidence in Margaret’s teaching, I managed to win that argument in the time honoured fashion of talking louder than he did.