Two years ago I posted on the subject of Ten Things To Do Before 40.

At the time, I was muddling through the PhD and at that age when teenagedom seems so far, yet a wiser age equally so.

It is not often that we revisit such lists – perhaps even less so that we enact the activities therein.

But yesterday, in a moment of abject WTFness, I did.

Number two, if you must know.

And it hurt like hell.

Which raises the question of whether our pain threshold lowers with age, or whether it was merely the technique.

When I was a nipper the de riguer process for nose piercing was the gun’n'stud.

Utterly crude, but quick and painless.

Of course, quick and painless is not always efficient and I relinquished said piercing within a month.

Today, British parlours have discovered that the old ways are best and enduring for a reason and that is how I found myself nasally pinned down by cold steel forceps while a woman with 43 piercings and tattooed eyebrows bore down on me with a 3 inch gold toothpick.

I would like to write that I bore it as a woman of immense constitution and merely mumbled, ‘my, what a prick. More tea?’.

Unfortuntely, it ran more along the following lines:

“OHMYGODIAMGOINGTODIE!”

“EEEEK!”

“NOYESNOYES!”

<swoon>

Before I portray myself as an utter flake, three points:

1. I drank a strong coffee before going in.

2. I jerked.

3. I have a phobia of nosebleeds.

Add them together and the gist is gleaned.

For her part, the artist was fantastically composed and in control.

As I wriggled and squealed like a stuck pig, she calmly informed me that it was halfway in – was I brave enough to continue or take it out and start again?

The last two words were enough to realign my definitions of terror and so amidst the “I’MDYING!” and “ARGH!” I slipped in the requisite “just do it…”.

Had I been in her Gothic knee-highs, I may have reached for the tranquilizer gun as customers streamed from the buildings amidst my hollers of carnage.

As it was, perhaps the most painful part was the Walk of Shame: descending the stairs to the waiting room where six pairs of eyes turned to see the woman who screamed like a banshee over a diamond the size of an ant’s head.

To console myself, I succumbed to a watch (another thing that I have not done in over 10 years).

My, but it is pretty.

And so it is done.

A slight worry this morning as the tiny diamond dipped too far into my nose (is this normal?), but after a little twisting, it re-emerged.

Phew.

Here’s hoping this one works out and the activity will not be featuring on future lists, such as Ten Things To Do Before 50.