At the age of 10, I was the budding Michael Flatley of Manchester when Riverdance was still Irish dancing and Michael was but a twinkle in Mrs. F's eye.

My tornado toes helped win us the Llangollen Eisteddfod, yet hot on triumph's heels came tragedy. Horrifying things sprouted betwixt kilt and sock.

"That's hair, Logan!" teacher screamed as though my knees were soiled with something the dog wouldn't bring home. "Not in my children's troupe!"

Rejected at 10, the Foreign Legion beckoned but Aunty Molly looked glum, pointing downward.

By 11, I wore size 11s, "and if you get shot," she explained, "the enemy will have to come back and shove you over."

By 12, I'd totally metamorphosed. On my first day at secondary school I was taken for a school-leaver, while en-route I endured the first of many battles not to pay full fare.

Within a week I was cock of the school without a fight, and automatic goalkeeper.

I've just seen the film Shrek and fallen in love with the green ogre. Except for the colour, it's me in puberty. Shrek is you and me when we feel at odds with our world, which we frequently do.

Shrek declares the truth: externals are irrelevant. Contrary to this shallow world, it's where the heart and mind are that matter most.

God knows. He peers right through the shell to see how well we conform to the godly image in which he made us.