“It’s not like I want anyone to be hurt or anything like that,” newly qualified first-aider, 19-year-old Conor Feighin, clarified last night “but y’know, if someone is going to be hurt, then I’d like to be on hand to help?”
Feighin scanned the sky anxiously, as he spoke.
“I’m not saying I’m a hero or anything like that…although if some people wanted to call me that for helping to save lives then that’d be ok too.”
“But mostly,” he smirked, as passengers streamed past him out of the arrivals hall, “none of these people have the remotest clue that they’re walking right past a fully trained first-aider. One who could spring into action, should they ever need to be resuscitated!”
The 19-year-old turned his sneering gaze on the figures hurrying towards the taxi rank, oblivious to his presence, a bitter note creeping into his voice. “If they only knew how easily their precious little lives could be snuffed out by a plane crash.” The teenager suddenly clicked his fingers to emphasize just how swiftly, fate might one day decide to grant him the power of life or death over them.
Then he shook his head sadly. “Sheeple,” he smiled, “that’s all they are – sheeple.”
As the crowds began to diminish, his mood altered once more and he sighed, gazing at the lights at the far end of the runway. “Well, that’s the last inbound flight tonight,” he mused, “I guess I’ll head on home and put in some time with my xbox.”
“I’ve got a Dr Oeteker pizza in the freezer that I’m planning to throw some chopped peppers and garlic on before I put it in the oven? I’m really looking forward to that. To be honest, I’ve been hanging out here so much I can hardly remember the names of the games I have.”
“They really ought to build a game that let’s qualified first-aiders tend to the wounded on the battlefield? I bet that would be real popular in the FA community, y’know?”