For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought I was funny-looking.
I’m not the only one. The second she clapped eyes on me, Tutti, thought I was pretty funny-looking too. And once she realised that any criticism of her new baby sent The Goat into paroxysms of rage, my chicken-legs and I had no chance at all.
It didn’t help much that when I was a baby, my mouth was so small, Tutti couldn’t even fit a teaspoon in it. Instead, she fed me with a miniature coffee spoon, that looked like it belonged in a dollshouse.
I’ve had hair like a poodle, ill-executed fringes and once, a trim so severe that Matty nicknamed me Perry, on account of the fact that I looked like a Peregrine Falcon. The day I came home from that traumatic haircut (during which I had soap dripped in my eye, was stabbed in the back of the neck with scissors and had the bleeding wound rubbed at roughly with a dirty towel which was full of someone else’s hair clippings), Matty took one look at me, inhaled a small crumb from the sandwich he was eating and choked.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Being funny looking means that people smile at me in the street. A lot. Someone once told me that I look like a bird. Possibly on account of my generously proportioned beak. No need to worry. I won’t peck you with it.
To be honest, (although each to their own) I don’t really understand why anyone would rather choose their nose out of a surgeon’s catalogue, than enjoy having a characterful conker on their face. I’ve always thought there was something strong, friendly and reassuring about a substantial schnozz.
I used to think my nose looked like it would be at home on the face of a muppet. In fact, I still do. But I’m not complaining.
Muppets are cute.