Given my nonchalant assumption so far that the big finger in the sky would eventually point elsewhere, you can imagine my shock when I opened this letter.

Dear Mrs Hanlon, you’re our best bet. Please rush to London to have a medical. Thanks, BBMR

My second reaction was ~ really? Can no-one in the north west perform a medical? Turns out, in this case, no they can’t. Specialist machinery & knowledge & blah blah.

I established at this point that they are after peripheral blood stream harvesting, not big needle in the hip under general anaesthetic harvesting which is by far preferable from a time-taken /recovery /general inconvenience point of view, I gather.

So they sent me to the London clinic on Marylebone Road in That London where they took nearly a pint of blood, x-rayed my chest, did an ECG and established that I’m 83kg heavy (I think) and 173cm tall, and politely served me water and orange juice.

HOLD ON A MOMENT. I’m 170cm tall, where did the extra 3 come from? And yes, I was wearing flat shoes. Since I stopped growing, I’ve been 5’7″ (1″ too short for catwalk modelling and yes, that is DEFINITELY the reason why I’m not in the twilight years of a very successful modelling career with a little acting & one-hit-wonder number 1 thrown in) or, in metric, 170cm.

But wait, the plot thickens. Not ONLY am I not 170cm tall, but 170cm does not equal 5’7″. My plan is to go downstairs at work and get a research nurse to measure me once and for all (they know how to measure properly, or at least, I’m told they do) and then once I’ve had a definitive answer, re-set my brain.

Anyway, blood tests back in 4 days. Bone marrow donation prospects are almost incidental at this point…