My outlook on life is based on several hackneyed principles. It's better to regret that which you have done than that which you haven't, life is short so grab the bull by the horns, feel the fear and do it anyway. I apply these things to everything I do as best I can, often resulting in waking up at seven in the morning in Wales unable to recall my name, going for weeks at a time without once seeing daylight, or spending a night being the belle of the ball and then a month with mild whiplash, a bruised back and a strangely-shaped graze in an unlikely place. There is, it seems, only one thing to which I cannot apply these happy-go-lucky, carpe diem, perpetually hungover cliches.
Frogs.
Well, not just frogs, actually. Newts and lizards are just as bad, and toads are if anything worse. They're very cute, they're totally harmless and the thought of being within three hundred metres of one is enough to reduce me to a gibbering, panicking wreck. Being presented with one such amphibian will result in screaming, hyperventilating and general hysteria which can take hours to pass, even once the object of the sudden fluster is long gone. I am a singularly dedicated and rather heavy smoker, and every new garden I slope off into while visiting a friend (but not until after having casually asked if they have frogs, of course-though my behaviour is generally the same whatever the answer) will see me flat up against the back door, eyes darting about, one hand on the doorknob in case I hear the faintest hint of a croak-my cue to drop everything, scream and scuttle inside with all the grace and finesse of an elephant. There are some friends who I simply will not visit for fear of what might be lurking in their gardens behind the hydrangeas. I adore cats, but refuse to get one for fear of the foul things it might bring in.
This strikes me as singularly ridiculous, and I must do something about it. Going to the local "Exotic Pet Emporium!" with a friend so as to Face My Fear resulted in me running out onto the high street practically screaming, and having to be half-carried to the nearest pub and fortified with gin. Neuro-Linguistic Programming (all the cool kids are doing it, don'cha know) and hypnotherapy probably will have no effect on someone as cynical about them as I am wont to be.
Simply writing this is making me shift uncomfortably in my seat and glance sidelong into shadowed corners, all the while listening out for that unmistakable 'ribbit!'. I am fast forming the impression that moving to the Antarctic may well be the only way to go.