My inferiority complex

I was born with an adult sized nose. Honestly, it was huge when I was young. I'd go to sleep face down in my pillow to squash my septum, figuring that if I did it for long enough I'd wake up with my conk permanently flattened. No such luck.

It's took thirty years for the rest of my face to catch up and get into some kind of proportion.

The feline anus has similar properties. Surely you've noticed it?

A kitten is born with a fully grown sphincter. If you come across one have a quick look. It won't be hard as they tend to scamp around with their tails in the air. You'll discover that a domesticated cat is born with a fully sized anus. It'll spend its youth growing in to it.

Anyway, my nose was quite the burden when I was young. Not just for the aerodynamic hindrance - wind could be a problem, but for the grief I received from my so called 'school mates'.

I remember once standing at morning assembly. I was at the end of a row of twenty or so kids mumbling along to Morning Has Broken. Stephen, an apparent mate of mine, tapped me on the shoulder. I turned my head to look at him and discovered that the little fucker had been in cahoots with the rest of the lads. As my nose spun over his head the whole row ducked in unison. The bastards.

These are experiences that stick with you into adulthood. I've now a residual habit of touching my nose in business meetings. It's rather like an ulcer on your tongue that feels massive in your head but looks tiny in the mirror.

My nose is this - huge subjectively yet normal to everyone else. I subconsciously try to hide it. In doing so I point at my nasal passages repeatedly. That way everybody notices my nose.

The thing is, everyone else is in the same boat. Paul for example, who's bald before his time, leans back in our meetings feigning relaxation. He rubs the top of his head with his elbows in the air like he's preparing for a big yawn. Perhaps he thinks no one notices.

Fiona, who has the most magnificent breasts, spends her time with her arms crossed across her chest like a stern school mistress. More's the pity.

So I wonder, why does Harry spend his time with his hands under the table?