We women relish telling our gory birth tales

Everyone who’s anyone knows that September is the ideal month for a cheeky minibreak. Europe’s kids are back at school, the crowds have dispersed and the temperatures are perfect for sightseeing in Florence or motoring down the Corniche.

When you tell someone you’re off on just such a jaunt, the conversation is reliably, Pooterishly formulaic: “I’m away this weekend.”

“Oh, that’s nice, where are you off to?”

“Bruges/prague/tallinn.” (Delete as appropriate.)

“How lovely.” Job done. Except not when you tell them you’re off to Transylvania. Oh no. Then it gets weirdly personal. I have been met with: “Ooh, what are you having done? Teeth? Hair removal?”

Scary. My friend genuinely thought I was in need of depilation so hardcore and extensive, it actually required leaving the Eurozone. It got worse. The other theory was that I was going to Transylvania for a discreet “youthening” blood transfusion.

Yes, it was revealed last week by a leading geneticist at University College London that older mice injected with young mouse blood don’t succumb to age-related illness.

But no, I’m not some kind of vampiric health tourist. If I were really into that sort of thing, I have children at home and surely there’s a Youtube video on how to set up the tubes and bags…?

For the record, we’re off to a family wedding. One of my husband’s nephews, who is French, is marrying a Romanian girl who hails from the Carpathian Mountains. They live in Japan. No reason to mention that last fact, other than to impress you with the thrilling international glamour of my hinterland-by-marriage.

We’ll be visiting Bran Castle, rumoured home of Count Dracula, and I’m a sucker for a hoary old superstition. I’ll be packing a string of garlic bulbs in my handbag just in case. We can always eat them later with our steak: rejuvenating red meat beats mouse blood every time.