Why couldn't the mayor of Corby say sorry? When the judge ruled that Corby borough council was negligent in dumping toxic waste that caused birth deformities the mayor was interviewed for The World At One. It was excruciating to hear him wriggling every which way to say anything but "sorry".

Presumably this was to avoid admitting legal responsibility but I fear this confusing of apologising with legal consequences is doing irreparable harm to our society – not just to the NHS with its many claims for medical errors, but in encouraging the idea that money will put things right, and so feeding the compensation culture.

Apologising is a deep, psychological part of human behaviour. When someone harms us we feel much better if they say sorry. Perhaps it is an evolved need to decide when it's time to stop aggression or argument and make up, as animals of many other species do in their own ways.

I have my own experiences that help me think about this. Two years ago, when on holiday in Corfu, I fell off a horse and broke my hip. After two agonising days in hospital they operated to put in a dynamic hip screw. Two weeks later I was in more pain and all their attempts to make me walk just made it worse. It took a lot of persuading before I was announced fit to fly and taken home. Back in Bristol the NHS took over and redid the operation. Not only had the metal been put in the wrong place, thereby damaging more bone, but I'd been infected with a staphylococcus bacterium, which, after two weeks, was thriving deep in my pelvis. It was another three months before the extra-powerful antibiotics had done their job and I was well enough to work again. I'm fine now, if still slightly limping.

Something deep down in me wanted the Greek doctors to say sorry. I did not want compensation. I know that operations can go wrong and people make genuine mistakes. I did not even want to find out whether they had done their best or had really been negligent (although I'd hate to think they'd do as badly with other patients). I just wanted them to say "we're sorry". But they wouldn't. They wrote very nice letters saying how much they'd enjoyed having me in their hospital and other kind things – but no "sorry". I understood. They couldn't admit liability.

But isn't this all wrong? Shouldn't we be able to divorce the natural human act of apologising from the formal act of taking legal responsibility? The cost, if we don't, is that people who have not got the satisfaction of an apology turn to money. "If you won't say sorry I'll sue you for all you've got you bastard!" And this is costly to us all.

I have an even more relevant personal experience. I too was born with a deformed hand – not as bad as many of the Corby children, but bad enough to know some of what they have gone through. My right hand is much smaller than my left; none of the fingers has two joints and two are very short and don't bend at all.

At primary school I used to tell my friends that my father was a wood-cutter and had chopped off my fingers (no matter that we lived in a posh London suburb or that the fingers had rudimentary nails on the end). I was sometimes teased, and even now I can easily detect when people are staring. I like the kids who come up to me and say "Hey miss, what you done to your hand?" Much better than the adults who stare and then look quickly away. At age 10 or so I desperately wanted to learn the piano but my parents wouldn't let me, I imagine from the mistaken opinion that I would find it too frustrating. I still regret that, though I've tried to play a little since.

I suspect that my mother, like Joy Shatford in Corby, blamed herself for my birth defect, and I don't suppose I was ever very sympathetic to her. The worst of all was when I was about 13 or 14 and she, knowing that I might soon be "interested in boys", took me to a Harley Street specialist to see whether he could construct some artificial fingers so that I wouldn't look so odd. This was strangely upsetting – even insulting I think. But I'll never forget that wonderful doctor. After some discussion he asked my mother to leave us alone for a few minutes. "You don't really want these plastic fingers do you?" he asked. "NO," I said. "Right then," he winked, "I'll sort it out." He called my mum back in and explained that the nails, bones and other details made a prosthesis impossible. Phew! Whether the boys I "became interested in", or snogged behind the tennis club shed ever cared I do not know. Somehow or other, despite these troubles, my hand never really did bother me.

So how would I feel now if I learned that mine was not a freak of nature but that someone has caused my deformity? Yes, I would want them to say sorry. I think I would feel just like one of the Corby children, Curtis, who said: "All the money in the world isn't going to give me a hand. After all this time, we just wanted a decision either way. Now I'd settle for a sorry from them." Good for you Curtis.

We need to find a way to make "sorry" – a sincere "sorry" – an option. If we don't then even the kindest and least greedy people will turn to demanding money instead of apologies. In this case Corby council taxpayers will have to foot the bill; in the wider cases of NHS mistakes, we all have to foot the bill. Our NHS money can be used in much better ways. And money can never change the past.