You don’t look good in red. You don’t look good in blue. I suppose you’ll simply have to hope that poetry sees you through.

You are one of the most unfortunate people in the entire world. You were born with a silver spoon… in your eye. You have a tiny third ear on the back of your head that you haven’t discovered yet, but even that won’t help you prepare for the people who are constantly creeping up behind you with frying pans.

Yes, life has been pretty terrible, hasn’t it? Your teachers all think your name is Wilfred Brummelhott, and so do your parents. Your cat would rather spend time in his litter box than sit on your lap. And when you sneeze, people don’t say “Bless You!” but “Go away please Wilfred”.

Luckily you are the finest poet in the entire country, and with your almost superhuman command of the English language, and every other one, come to think of it, you are a born leader – destined to walk tall among your peers, occasionally balancing your orange juice on their heads. Your skill with words would be legendary, your metaphors admired for centuries, your similes bringing smiles to these Isles.

Rotten luck though – your voice is so awful, so terribly reedy and wet, that people stuff hankies in their ears whenever you open your mouth.

Better luck next time round – maybe as a dung beetle?