Well, he’s no Red Riding Hood and I’m no fox, but it certainly isn’t a dainty little knot in the middle of the face either.
The first born, with all the subtlety of a pubescent lad, confronted his sweet-natured mother with: “Always know when you’re on the horizon, Mom – your nose comes around the corner a block before you do.”
“Be careful of what you say, lad, that nose is hereditary – just like the ‘monkey toe’.”
And so it came to pass, that as he grew so did his proboscis.
On him it looks as noble and apt as on his grandfather, and perhaps many a male antecedent, as it is designed to offset the strong bones and jaw line of such men.
My mother had looked at this feature of mine in my teens with something akin to pity and told me she thought plastic surgery may do the trick.
Now, being a typically self-conscious teenager, I remember suddenly becoming painfully aware of this blight, which had until that moment escaped my scrutiny.
Thankfully, another trait asserted itself: as there was nought I could do about it, best ignore it and make the most of whatever assets there may happen to be.
So far it’s worked, as the subject has never been raised again. I choose polite company, of course.