They say that curiosity killed the cat. Thanks to DNA testing kit 23 and Me, I now know this to be false. Curiosity, instead, will kill me.
23 and Me is a ‘personal genomics’ company that provides a saliva-based genome test (more on this shortly) that unlocks information about your genetics, your health, your ancestry and more, which it posts online for you to scrutinise. Or, in my case, blub over.
The California-based company claims that its purpose is to help you manage your health and wellbeing. This is a tall order. What it actually does is analyse the personal genomes in your saliva and then, if you’re prone to hypochondria, instil in you the fear of God.
The process could not be simpler. You order your DNA collection kit on the website (it retails at £125). The DNA kit arrives in an extremely neat and virtually bombproof box. You then register the kit online – presumably to ensure you receive your personal results and not those of the orphaned and diseased recalcitrant who lives two doors down. (Actually, now I’m wishing I had been presented with the recalcitrant’s results.)
Next you have to spit in a test tube. This sounds straightforward, but it’s the only slightly fiddly aspect of the process: the bossy lines on the test tube demand that you provide litres of saliva. One must dedicate some time and attention to this stage, and have had lots of delicious dinners in recent history that can be summoned to the forefront of memory. You then insert the test tube into the bombproof box, post (postage paid) and wait.
Six weeks’ wait may seem extensive, but, with the perquisite of hindsight, it is actually an incomparably relaxing period in the overall process. You post the box, spend a day wishing the results would come sooner, then totally forget until you receive an email announcing that the results await you.
The website is easy to navigate, even for those who are less computer-literate than some. The test is, undoubtedly, innovative. Time magazine heralded it as Invention of the Year in 2008, and it’s obvious why. Furthermore, 23 and Me is also quite good fun.
But that’s all well and good, until you log in to read your results.
Results are divided into two categories: ancestry composition and health overview. Each category has subcategories: for example, Neanderthal ancestry. I discovered 2.8 per cent of my DNA is from Neanderthals. This, according to the website, is above average for the 23 and Me user. The website has a section about Neanderthals and their genetic evidence, which is fascinating stuff.
Ancestry composition is similarly entertaining. I discovered I’m three per cent Scandinavian and 0.4 per cent South Asian. Reassuringly, the website tells me I am 100 per cent Constance Watson. The infographics that map your genetic heritage are fascinating — Nigel Farage would do well to have a gander.
The health overview, however, is less jolly. Genetic risk factors, inherited conditions, traits and drug responses are all a little frightening. There are some, but few, moments of lighter entertainment embedded in the information, such as earwax type, hair curl and eye colour. It is a mind-blowing miracle of modern science that just saliva can provide this galaxy of information about your health. You can spend hours and hours falling further and further down the black hole of 23 and Me — I did – fretting over the response rate of your proton pump inhibitor metabolism. (Mine’s rapid — and I still don’t know what that means.)
23 and Me is a brilliant invention, easy to use and infinitely fascinating. But it serves to remind us that, all too often, ignorance is bliss.