A Bit Wobbly

My children sometimes imply that I might not be an entirely fit mother. This is partly because of my habit of completely losing my temper and chasing them through the house shouting that I will burn all their toys if they don't behave. I reckon it's their fault for being annoying, by the way, but we may have to agree to differ on that.

One issue, however, that I find it harder to defend myself on is my squeamishness in the face of blood. While I'm happy to look at my own flowing out in torrents, the sight of a cut on anyone else turns me into an abject weed. Even seeing someone trimming their fingernails makes me wince, let alone injuries from childhood falls. Grazes on knees, sliced fingers, gashed foreheads, all these have me turning away in horror, gesturing vaguely towards the medicine cupboard and the packet of Band Aids I hope are somewhere inside. 'You're supposed to do that for us,' my daughters tell me (or used to - they're in their twenties now and have given up), 'you're supposed to clean up the wound and kiss it better.' 'Don't mention the word "wound"' is all I can mutter as I stagger towards the sofa for a long lie down.

I have to admit this used to make me feel a bit guilty. At least it did until I saw my friend Polly last weekend. She told me about her great grandfather who was so squeamish that when his son was dissecting corpses (as part of his medical studies, I hasten to add, rather than just as a hobby) he would come home and tease his father by sitting down at dinner and pretending to be distracted by a tiny speck on his coat sleeve. Picking the imaginary article off the material, he would examine it with a frown. 'Oh, it's just a bit of skin,' he'd announce, flicking it lightly away. Then he would pick up his knife and fork and look around hungrily, as his father, drained of colour, was escorted from the room.

Worse than that though - and this is the detail that makes me feel quite normal - Polly's great grandfather could not remain in a room where there was jelly. In fact, he only had to glimpse the stuff to be off his food all day.

So you see, there's nothing wrong with me at all. I might faint at the sight of a pair of nail scissors but I can contemplate a bowl of jelly without turning a hair.