I know I've said previously in this column that everything appears to change but really stays the same. Well, some things really should change, particularly corned beef tins.

I have to tell you that I am writing this with great difficulty thanks to a lacerated thumb and middle finger. The cuts are quite deep. The blood was copious and difficult to stem.

It all started with a talk at Clifton Library. Because I had to get there by 7.30 and knew that parking around Clifton Village was pretty Stone Age, I set off early. This meant having an early and light dinner.

By the time I got home I was hungry. Me and him were both hungry. Sandwiches were in order, so out came half a (wholemeal) loaf and the culprit of this piece – a tin of corned beef.

Square tins are stupid. Silly little keys to open them are pretty stupid, too.

In all fairness the key was not the culprit, though; it was the tin. Once the key had done its job I was left with two separate halves of tin. The trick is then to prise the corned beef out from between these tightly fitting jaws – and jaws is just how they operate.

I should have used a knife; I know that now. But I didn't. I figured that modern technology had produced this square(ish) tin to be a better performer than the old ones. I was wrong.

The wibbly wobbly metal wouldn't let go. My corned beef and piccalilli sandwiches were stained with blood.

Plasters were immediately brought into operation but failed to stem the flow. I had sustained bad cuts.

Now I understand that these square tins with their fixed keys were introduced for the men fighting in the trenches of World War I. The reason appears to be that independent tin openers could get lost in the mud. No tin opener equals no corned beef.

So tins with a key were brought into operation – and the tins were square. Corned, or "bully beef" as it was commonly called, came into this country from South America – Argentina, to be exact. Very exotic.

But how come square tins? Is it something to do with Spanish culture? Or do they bear a grudge against us? After all, the British Navy had a habit of visiting that area to blast away with big guns for one reason or another. Perhaps those square tins were designed to cut us to shreds; the Argentinians are merely getting their revenge.

So anyway, here I sit with a finger and thumb throbbing beneath a layer of Elastoplast. It's very sore to type, but hey, am I a girl to let my readers down? Of corners not.

Anyway, I console myself with the fact that my injuries were all in a very good cause. I enjoyed giving a talk at the library in Princess Victoria Street and heartily thank those who attended, including the very capable library staff – dedicated people every one.

What a coincidence that two of those who came to the talk turned out to have attended the same schools as I did. One of those schools, the old Bristol Central Commercial School in Redcross Street, no longer exists. Victoria Park Infants and Junior School is still very much in operation.

Best of all, us old pupils are still around, too. Like corned beef tins we're going as strong as we were many years ago and are still pretty tasty.

Unlike corned beef tins, we don't sport corners and are not likely to slice your fingers off. We're curvaceous and of a rather fine vintage – like magnums of top quality champagne. Cheers!