A few weeks ago, I was sat at my desk, joyfully spending my afternoon conducting important administrative duties such as stalking people who have the same name as me on Facebook and browsing unusual taxidermy on Etsy, when there was a knock at my door.

Now I’m no fool. I know a knock at the door can mean one of three things:

1) Death has arrived.

2) The FBI have heard about my particular skillset and would like to offer me a job.

3) Someone wants five minutes of my time to talk about Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Much to my surprise, when I nervously opened the door (having put on some trousers first, I’m not an animal), none of those things were to be found on the other side. In a completely unexpected turn of events, it was my friend. With a roll of bandages wrapped around her hand. A roll of bandages increasingly going a rich red colour.

"Squeamishness isn’t really anything to be ashamed of, blood is gross, violence is horrible, and you’re not meant to enjoy it"

I scanned through some potential greetings. ‘Good afternoon’ was too formal and my personal favourite ‘howdy’ seemed misplaced. I opted for a safe, “Hi!”

Good choice. “Hi,” she said, neglecting to congratulate me for the fact that I was, in fact, wearing trousers.

“How can I help you?” I asked, feeling this interaction was one of the more successful ones I’d had lately, and enthusiastic for it to go in an interesting and fun direction. What could she want from me? Were the bandages a code? Were we going to stage an elaborate fan-parody of Holby City?

“Can you take me to the Porters' Lodge? I’ve cut my hand and don’t want to go alone.”

I tried not to let my face reflect my disappointment. “Sure!” I said, because Holby City remake or no Holby City remake, I’m a good friend.

The problem was, while I am a good friend, I’m not good with blood. Or looking at blood. Or talking about blood. Or thinking about blood. So, by the time we’d got to the porters (who, lucky ducks, kind of did get to restage a somewhat sub-par version of Holby City) I was blind, deaf and increasingly struggling to stand up.

“Are you OK?” My friend asked, nursing her actual injury that was actually bleeding.

“I think so. My eyes have gone a bit not-see-y. Am I underwater?”

Thus my friend learned an important lesson, that in the event of any kind of injury, no matter how minor, Kate Collins is not the person to go to. (The same goes for if she was looking for some to go running with, or needed a fourth member for a barbershop quartet. Safe to say my FBI worthy skillset does not include those particular proficiencies.)

I hate being squeamish. People call me a wuss, and they’re right, and I really wish I wasn’t. I was the kid who couldn’t dissect the heart in GCSE Biology. I was the kid who fainted in the RAC road safety talk. And all these things usually would be fine. Squeamishness isn’t really anything to be ashamed of, blood is gross, violence is horrible, and you’re not meant to enjoy it.

Big Mouth: Anyone can do what I do

The only problem is I love theatre, film, and writing. Which means I frequently subject myself to strange situations of self-torture. I wanted to see King Lear, and I loved it, despite very nearly copiously vomiting when Gloucester’s eyes were put out. And anyone who knows me well knows that my own scripts often feature occurrences of, or at least allusions to, violence. Not one, but two things I’ve written recently contain uncomfortably close brushes with castration. I must have killed at least five fictional dogs and on one occasion written about stamping someone’s brains out.

I’m not sure what this says about me. Perhaps we’re all a bit fascinated by things we can’t stand. For now, I imagine it’s best not to think too much about it.

Because if I do, I’ll probably pass out