A Life Less Scary
"The interesting and varied life of Scary Duck, Genius, French Cabaret Chantoose and small bets placed."
Light of my life.
Fire of my loins.
My sin. My soul.
Re. Susci. Ann.
Becoming the office First Aider is a right, not a privilege. It is not, for example, an excuse to get out of work for an entire week as you scoot off to Bracknell for a course in order to qualify for your certificate. A certificate that will, if you're lucky allow you to tend to all the medical needs of every single young lady with whom you work, becoming and enormous hero in the process.
In your dreams.
I went on a week-long First Aid course in a freezing cold hall in Bracknell, attended, in the main, by other corporate volunteers suddenly realizing it is not the enormous skive it is cracked up to be. And, of course, the tutor, who has seen this all before, knows that she is faced with a bunch of slackers, many of whom are hunkering down for a lovely afternoon's nap.
Returning to Bracknell for the first time since I left college, I had made it my duty to visit as many of the pubs I frequented as a student, from which we were banned following that nasty incident with the college Christmas meal which went horribly, drunkenly wrong. So, as soon as we were released for lunch, I led a raiding party on the nearest public house, and well, sunk a few more than we originally planned.
Drink, you will note, was a factor that the court should consider in mitigation.
Mid-afternoon boredom is a terrible thing. Thussly, it is neither big nor clever to get a lob-on on the first day of a week-long first aid course, particularly when your instructor is wearing a far-too-tight nurse's uniform, which your somewhat drowsy attention has settled on following a liquid lunch and a huge bowl of pub chili con carne when she perches her voluptuous frame on the corner of a desk.
It is also best to make sure you attend this course wearing ...um... robust trousers, and not that pair of jeans with the dodgy fly that comes undone at the drop of a nurse's hat. This advice will save you from one thing: woe.
This kind of woe to be precise: The woe that comes from at least four days of ribbing from said instructor, when, after a triumphant go on the Resusci-Ann doll you stand in front of the entire class, your manly bulge is proudly on display as your mind has drifted away to the far more welcoming subject of nurses' camels toes.
"For a small fee", she said as the class sniggered, "I'll let you take her home tonight."
And they laughed. Oh how they laughed, and not that nice "laughing with me", either. At me. For four days. Even the little old lady who came in to do the exams on the Friday knew.
She told me not to use my tongue on the mouth-to-mouth doll. For shame.
While this story is based on actual events in the life of Scaryduck, certain identities and venues may have been changed to protect the innocent.