As a younger man, I liked to believe I was relatively well put together. I took care of my appearance, choosing my clothes carefully and ensuring my hair was the way I liked it. Though I am not tall – and have even been described as diminutive – I have never felt inferior to other men. That is, until one evening fifteen years ago. I was at a dinner at a club in the West End when a male model sat down beside me. This was the foremost underwear model of the time, with a vast chest and iron jaw, and so tall that if I were to stand up, he could have snuggled my pretty head into his armpit. He clearly had no idea who I was and no interest in finding out. After offering me his huge hand, he turned his chair in the other direction and spent the evening entertaining a series of giddy women who materialised around our table. Next to this giant, I was rendered minuscule, impotent and humiliated. All my years of struggle for writing recognition collapsed; if I had won the Nobel Prize that morning...
