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Like many mothers whose children work as journalists in China, mine has an exaggerated fear of the Chinese government and all its agents.

My more worldly dad, on the other hand, understands that it is often the littler and far less dramatic things that one should worry more about. "I am much more worried about the Chinese mosquitoes than I am about their politicians and police," he once, wrote me before I ventured off for a backpacking trip through south and southwest China.

"You are too smart to run afoul of the law, but dumb enough not to take that medication. Malaria and hepatitis are no fun - so be careful and swallow the pills."

The tiny coronavirus that causes severe acute respiratory syndrome (Sars), therefore, has both of my parents plenty worried so much so that I was somewhat surprised by the urgency of their tone over the phone during the past few weeks.

My mother being a mother is particularly upset, and it does not help that many of her friends and acquaintances frequently ask her about the health of her far flung son and are generous in their suggestions of many a homespun remedy. Had I, for example, considered walking around with a dab Bacitracin ointment under each of my nostrils? Well no, I had not.

It did not take me long to figure out that my own profession bears much blame for the overblown fears of my parents and many others. Consider this recent gem from the pages of the Economist, which is one of my father's favourite windows onto, the outside world: "Streets in [Hong Kong's] business district normally bustling, are eerily quiet. Rush hour is gone, as people try to take public transport at unusual hours. Everybody who has a face mask wears it."

Everybody? Really? The South China Morning Post was so concerned about the health of its employees that it sold us all masks a set of two or three for HK$12, if I remember right. I'm not sure because I never wore them and now I cannot even remember where I put them. Most of my friends and colleagues have not worn theirs either.

One friend a long time Hong Kong resident – was travelling in China when the outbreak here first hit the international headlines.

"My brain says we're seeing something of an over reaction and when a 14 year old's fake Web site can empty shelves in Wellcome I know we're not dealing with a rational fear,” he e mailed me as he was making his way overland back to Hong. “But all the same – should I be wearing that mask?”

I told him I did not think it was as bad as all that, and I thought his reaction after arriving back in Hong Kong summed it all up rather well: "The situation looks a lot more manageable from inside Hong Kong than it does from outside.”

Another friend in Tokyo, who works for a major multinational company, e-mailed me about a recent episode at the office. “It is nice to confirm that you are alive,” my friend wrote. “We had a visitor from Hong Kong last week. Some people in my office got pretty nervous getting close to this person. Though he didn't realise that he was not welcome, I still felt sorry for him."

I have even gotten a taste of this myself. Tonight I am supposed to fly to England for a wedding. Or at least I think I am. My invitation is now conditional upon a poll of the guests, who will be asked if they are comfortable if someone from Hong Kong is milling about in their midst.

'It is an irrational fear, but also an understandable one. And, perhaps it is easy to be too blasé about such things.

So at least my parents are not the only ones worried beyond distraction about Sars. Besides nervous wedding guests and Tokyo office workers, they also have as company some of the world’s leading health professionals. Consider, as an example, this little anecdote I heard about during a brief visit to Guangzhou last week.

A friend had attended a recent press conference given by officials from the World Health Organisation and Guangdong Health Bureau in Guangzhou. After the officials had taken their last questions and the two teams said goodbye to each other, my friend noticed one WHO delegate heading to the bathroom.

Perhaps thinking he could get in a question or two at the urinals, my friend followed the WHO official. But as it turned out, the WHO expert did not have to use the bathroom. Instead, my friend found him standing at the sink. Having just shaken hands with his Guangdong counterparts, the WHO official was scrubbing his own, furiously, with liquid soap and warm water.

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