I’M NOT scared by heights, I don’t mind the dark, and I can cope with ghosts, small spaces, spiders or snakes.

However, this Friday I’ve got to have a blood test. And a large part of me is already scouting for cheap flights out of the country.

I feel like a loser. For everyone else, I imagine needles provoke the same emotional response as hearing that the local supermarket has run out of washing detergent.

However, for me, a blood test prompts the same fear as a sighting of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse blazing through Kendal holding a massive blood stained banner saying ‘We are coming for you Helen.’ It’s not always been like this.

As a child, I didn’t like injections but my astute mother, savvy woman, would tell me ‘don’t cry and you can have sweets’.

I would practically grin at the nurse. There’s nothing like the promise of pick and mix to get a six year old on side.

My phobia only really got going when I was 13 and had to have a series of hospital tests.

A young nurse had to take some blood. No big deal. But when he stuck the needle into my arm he missed the vein.

He tried again. Still didn’t work.

And again...

Nope.

On the fifth time, just as the inside of my elbow was starting to go black, a more senior nurse came to take blood from my other arm. By this point there was red liquid dripping onto the lino floor and the room was swimming in front of me.

Doctors got their DNA, but in its place, I had a fear which circulated through my body and swept into my head. And it is still there.

I’ve tried reasoning with myself. Injections only last a few seconds, and it can’t possibly hurt as much as when Bouncer the horse stood on your foot. But my hot phobia panic has proven impossible to shift.

So when you see me, on Friday, shaking from head to toe and clutching pick and mix, don’t mention the N word.