By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Hilarious This Way Comes

Back in the 1960s, when I am a young man of seventeen going on eighteen, I work in the medical laboratory of the local teaching hospital. One of my regular jobs is to go round the wards collecting blood samples for pre-op testing.

I am in the day-room of the gynaecological ward collecting blood from twenty to thirty ladies. One of the younger ones is very obviously extremely nervous. One of the older ladies speaks up.

Older Lady: “Don’t worry about him, love; it’s only a little prick.”

I blushed the colour of a beetroot and suddenly everyone, except me, was much more relaxed.