In which I discover a limit

I'm not a squeamish person. Compost delights me. I'll cheerfully clear out a blocked drain. As an emo teenager I once lay in bed and watched as ants devoured a dead woodlouse on my bedroom carpet. More recently, I developed the conviction that childbirth and early parenthood had cauterised whatever vestiges of perturbability remained to me (though I'll admit I have been known to scream at surprise poo).

Turns out I was wrong. For lo, I can be squicked. Yesterday lunchtime, I encountered a circumstance so grim that it left me gasping and retching and needing a sit-down all on my own before I could function again.

I had sliced a bagel and brought it to the toaster, which is in the corner of the counter. I reached over to stick the bagel halves into the slots, and as I withdrew my hand, one finger brushed against something. For a few seconds I couldn't even parse the sensation - it was so utterly out of place. But then I did, and I looked, and I lost it.

( Click here if curiosity overwhelms you. But be warned: it's not nice. And there's a photo. )