Anthropomorphobia

As the venerable Master Cocker once put it, here comes the fear again. Spiders? Smashing. Gore? Gimme more. 13 for supper? Triskaidekaphobia schmobia, and pass the salt. No, the Blonde's phobia is far more random: try an absolute abhorrence of anthropomorphism on for size. Finally settling down to my four-month-overdue LoveFilm DVD last night, nicely relaxed after a couple of post-work Amaretto Sours in Freuds, I was wholly unprepared for a fuck-off massive imaginary man-rabbit to crash all pookalike into my brain. I knew I'd ordered a Jimmy Stewart film but long forgotten which one - and now remembered that choosing Harvey had stemmed from a post- Donnie Darko decision to face my fear of upstanding animals once and for all.

It all started very young, with the illustrations in a book of ancient mythology for kids featuring the likes of  the falcon-headed Ra and the lion-limbed Sphinx, before progressing via Alice's white rabbit and Dot's kangaroo to the tsar of the Homo critters, Mr Tumnus. It extends to animals spliced with other species - Heston's Tudor chicken-pig turned my guts to snail porridge - but my main bête-noire is with beasts becoming bipedal, particularly if they have hooves.

I have long suspected that anthropomorphism terrifies me partly becasue it so cruelly lays bare our pathetic pretensions to rise above the rutting, whinnying beasts, hoisting ourselves aloft with cracking knees and shaking ankles in a hubristic attempt to touch the skies; and partly because Mr Tumnus was always quite evidently a disgusting little hairy paedophile.

I did finish Harvey in the end by sheer force of my steely will, but I had to read a whole Wilbur Smith and half a Vogue to soothe my quaking soul, and even writing this is making me feel sick. Someone bring me my Bleak House boxset, now.