Needles - reminded by Humpty
I can usually sit there quite happy while a nurse pokes something sharp into me and ask her for a sweetie once she's done but it's fair to say that this isn't my natural response. I hate needles.

Why?

Aged five, my ever neurotic mother sent me to the doctors for some very embarrassing trouser dropping, willy out in front of everyone type proddy examinations.

My grasp of medical terminology at that age wasn't much advanced beyond "hurts", "plaster" and "bleeding", so I was unable to comprehend the meaning of the word "Hernia". I knew I had one because the doctor poked me hard in the lower abdomen and asked if it hurt. Cunt.

As it happened, the recently widowed rotund lady called Judy, who lived at the end of my road turned out to be a pediatric nurse. My mother explained I was going to hospital and that Judy would be looking after me. Now, Judy was a very gentle soul, with big friendly eyes and a great manner with children. Nothing to fear, hey?

Sure enough, I'm dropped off at the hospital whereupon I'm entrusted to Judy.

"I'm just going to give you a little prick" oh, how imaginative the responses to that statement I could conjure up today.

"I want you to pull down your pajama bottoms and bend over the bed" she cooed.

At this point I was expecting a kind of jab that you get if you prick the end of your finger with a pin. Hell no.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" I cried.

Judy had seemingly rolled up her sleeve and taken a 100 yard run up before plunging a knitting needle into my right buttock in a manner akin to Fatima Whitbread doing her warmups.

That wasn't the end of it, oh no... Seemingly any excuse to stuff a large needle into my bottom was gleefully siezed by whatever medical professional was passing by my bed.

I ended up being strapped to a wheely bed thing while people in gowns stuffed needly plug type things into my wrist. Then everything went black and I woke up with sharp pain in my lowers which corresponded to the four inch slice in me just above my pelvis. Not a good day all round. To my five year old brain, someone had tried to cut my willy off and only just missed.

Fast forward 21 years...

Having sliced my hand washing up, ex-Mrs PJM drives me to casualty to have me sewn up. I cringe now, but I was very brave right up until the nervous doctor started to inject me with anaesthetic. I made him promise on his life that he would only put the bare minimum stitches in me.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 11 Apr 2008, 14:14, Reply)