Some of you may know that I am a huge fan of Katie Price, aka Jordan. I have all her books, an underwear set and the exercise video. I even had a pet mouse called Jordan at one point. Some people think she is a rather odd choice of idol for me, because we couldn’t be more different (eg: She wears glamorous frilly knickers for work, I wear ill fitting bottle green combats. She is a wife and mum, I am a confirmed child free singleton. She fancies Peter Andre, I don’t. Etc.) but I think that is the whole point. I don’t look up to people who are like me because I am already the best at being me! I think Katie is a fascinating, bright and extraordinary person and I admire the way she just gets on with everything and always has a smile on her face. She can get away with anything because she just has that certain something – her wedding dress and her old breast implants, for instance, would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but Katie can pull it off simply because she is Katie. Or because she is Jordan.
Anyway, you may have wondered what all this has to do with ambulances. Well, on Sunday I was first aiding at the London Marathon with St John Ambulance, as I do every year. But this year I was extra keen because I knew Katie and Peter were running and I hoped to be able to catch a glimpse of them.
Hours passed, Vaseline was handed out, runners vomited pure Lucozade in my direction, people collapsed, and still there was no sign. We’d been so busy dealing with casualties that I couldn’t be sure if they’d passed or not. I updated my Twitter feed desperately: No sign of Jordan.
Then suddenly, I was standing at the barrier admiring the fancy dress costumes, when a lady ran up to me and said “Excuse me, would you mind putting some strapping on Katie Price’s knee?”
“Strapping knees, no problem…” I began. “Sorry, whose knee?!”
And suddenly, there she was, resplendent in an orange t-shirt, with Pete wrapping a protective arm round her shoulder. Katie Price, limping towards our treatment station. Oh my god!
“Katie, over here!” I said, as if she was an old friend. “Just take a seat and we’ll get your knee strapped up.”
(Internal monologue: Must be cool. Must not tell her that I think she is wonderful. Must not mention that I named my pet mouse after her. Be professional at all times.)
“Thanks,” said Katie (oh my god – she spoke to me). “I think you’ll need to cut through my leggings.”
I got out my tuffcuts. And then I paused. I couldn’t defile Katie Price by cutting through her leggings! But she insisted, and I snipped away. Oh crikey, I was touching Katie Price herself! I would never wash my hands again! I would frame the tuffcuts!
“Oh no! I haven’t shaved my legs!” exclaimed Katie.
“They look fine to me,” I said, which would probably sound really sleazy if I was a bloke, but I think I got away with it.
Then I got out a bandage and presented it to a nearby doctor who obliged in bandaging Katie’s poor sore knee and prodding and poking her a bit. Meanwhile, my colleague Jayne was interrogating Peter Andre, who was jogging on the spot behind me, about his tattoos. I noticed that he had “Jade” written on his arm in eyeliner.
Katie was determined to carry on, despite the fact that her knee was killing her, so off they went, with all the St John Ambulance people wishing them well.
So if you see pictures of Katie finishing the marathon with a bandage on her knee, just think, “That’s Suzi Nee Naw’s bandage, that is.”