It’s official. What I’ve suspected for many years turns out to be a genuine scientific fact.
There is such as thing as Napoleon syndrome.
Scientists have come up with evidence to show those of, shall we say, shorter stature have what you might want to kindly refer to as an inferiority complex.
And if there was ever a prime example of a sufferer it’s yours truly.
No, I’m not hell bent on European domination, although it would be nice.
And I don’t have a habit of stuffing any of my arms inside my coat, although on a cold winter night in Scunthorpe, when gloves just don’t suffice, it is a temptation.
But I do have, well, what you might kindly call a bit of a complex.
And for good reason.
Being short, I’ve concluded, has very few advantages.
For a start My Good Wife is embarrassed to wear heels for fear of towering over me.
Then there’s the fact nobody seems to make trousers that actually fit, which means I’m constantly treading on my own clothing.
I have to retreat sheepishly if somebody suggests lending me a bike, I spend my entire life moving the car seat forwards and I can’t reach the Rice Krispies in Booths.
Then there’s the banter - most of it friendly and much of it thanks to Peter Jackson, without whom I doubt most of those responsible would have heard of a Hobbit!
None of these things, in themselves, are enough to make a man angry.
I guess it’s a cumulative thing and maybe when you’re a little on the short side you just have to shout a bit louder to get noticed.
That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
And the great thing is now I know it’s my height making me a mardy-bum I can start doing something about it.
It’s all about being more positive, looking on the bright side.
It’s easier to squeeze through gaps to reach the bar, I don’t have to worry about bumping my head in doorways and my children don’t have to reach so far to give me a hug.
In the future I’m going to smile about my Napoleon syndrome.
But just don’t even think about calling me shorty!