I HEARD something the other day so infuriating that it made me want chop off my Chinese-burned wrists and send them into a science lab as evidence to dispute their latest findings.

Because a new study has claimed that people are more likely to end up as happy and balanced adults if they’ve had the pleasure of growing up with sisters. Apparently, having females in the family is supposed to bring a care and share attitude to the dinner table, encouraging heart-to-hearts over the Oxo cubes and such. Brothers, on the other hand, have the opposite effect and seem to make people grow up slightly less cheerful and a little emotionally stunted (I paraphrase). And we all know what happens to only children.

So I should be laughing all the way to premium mental health, shouldn’t I? Well, that’s as may be, but I can’t help but take exception to the findings of this study. I’ve been plagued with sisters for not merely my entire life, but even in those golden pre-existence months. Everyone else would reasonably expect nine months to swim around undisturbed, knowing that after this it’s all downhill, but already I was subjected to physical and mental abuse from a sister within the womb. I’ve never quite recovered from the time she tried to strangle me with an umbilical cord.

And from there it’s invariably been more of the same – it’s true that, these days, attacks are more likely to come via Facebook insults than sharpened fingernails but even now I wouldn’t exactly say that having sisters has given me a psychological edge over those with brothers. In fact, I used to love the idea of an older brother. While my sisters were into Barbies, all I wanted to do was pull the heads off them (the Barbies, not sisters) and play catch with them. If I’d have had a brother I could have happily spent many an hour throwing a decapitated doll around the garden. As it was, I was forced to help prepare Barbie’s dream wedding to Ken for the 12th time that day. And as for the regular, meaningful conversations we were expected to have, well, I’m afraid to report that more often than not they went something like: “Did you see Corrie last night?” “Yeah.” “Good wasn’t it?” “Yeah.”

If I ever chose to divulge my deepest secrets to my sisters I imagine they’d laugh for a while, tell everyone we know and then direct me to Jeremy Kyle.

Of course, the proof is in the pudding – have the years of high jinx bordering on torture really turned me into a more emotionally sound young person than those with brothers? I’ll have to tell you another time – my wrists are just about in tatters.