The Perils of a Chronically Delayed Puberty.

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I’m not saying I was a late developer, but by the time puberty arrived, it sent a postcard first “Delayed due to engineering works.” I was like a biological British Rail. You know, the kind where the train’s supposed to arrive at Platform 2, but instead it’s stuck in a siding somewhere near Carlisle, wondering what its purpose in life is.

I remember being thirteen, standing in the school showers, surrounded by lads who looked like they’d been cast in Braveheart hairy, muscular, voices like gravel in a cement mixer. And there’s me, looking like a freshly hatched chicken in a fog. I had the physique of a breadstick and the voice of a startled budgie. I squeaked when I coughed. I even had to run around under the shower to get wet!

My mum kept saying, “Don’t worry son, you’ll catch up.” Catch up? I wasn’t even on the same motorway. I was still at the service station, trying to figure out how the bloody vending machine worked.

And the worst part sex education. They’d wheel in this telly on a trolley, and we’d watch grainy footage of two mannequins rubbing against each other like confused furniture. And I’d sit there thinking, “I don’t even know how to shave yet. I still use bubble bath and cry when I lose my Lego.”

Even now, I’m not convinced I’ve started. I wake up some mornings and check the mirror for signs of maturity. Nothing. Just the same daft grin that looks like it’s been negotiated by a committee of squirrels.

But you know what? I’ve decided I’m not late I’m just fashionably delayed. Like a good whisky or a tax rebate. I’ll arrive when I bloody well feel like it. And when I do, I’ll be magnificent. Probably wearing a cape. Or at least trousers that fit.










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