This week’s writephoto prompt is

Noblett Suppository hated everything about himself and would have paid a King’s ransom to have everything changed if only he’d not been born into a seedy republic that nestled between the municipal scrapyard and the redundant A427 bypass. Kings, as everyone admitted were in such short supply that he would need to import one in order to find out exactly how much you could ransom them for, and there were strict prohibitions on the reintroduction of any invasive royal persons since someone brought a minor archduke back from their holidays and before anyone knew it there were a multitude of duchies sprouting up everywhere.

He began saving his money, in case he ever found out (a) how much a make over cost and (b) who he needed to pay.

In particular he hated: the way his fingers tapped everything; how he enunciated the letters R and P; his tendency to list during the full moon. Mostly though he hated how he looked. The sight of his toes caused a gastric Doppler effect that made his stomach sound like it was both coming and going; he carried an syringe full of organic troll tears in case he caught a glimpse of his knees, and the one time he’d turned quickly enough to spot his left elbow it had been so traumatic, he had to have his spleen regusseted.

Fortunately Noblett had avoided mirrors in his long yet shallow and oddly beige life, so had little idea what his face looked like. He did wonder. He would watch people carefully to spot any signs of wincing, any unexpected side-eyes that suggested disgust or distress and the telltale pupil widening that connoted an imminent heart discombobulation. Nothing. People saw Noblett and smiled. They grinned. He couldn’t understand why. When they said he looked as happy as anyone, he didn’t believe them.

Eventually he spoke to the Wise Personage. ‘Try looking and decide for yourself’ intoned the Wise Personage.

‘You sure about that?’

‘I’m not called the Wise Personage because of my inherent doubts, sonny.’

So Noblett borrowed a mirror and looked. He thought he looked foul, but oddly as soon as he put the mirror down he couldn’t remember why.

He went back to the Wise Personage.

‘Yes, what?’

‘I looked but I don’t remember if I look horrible or not.’

‘You’ve got prosopagnosia.’

‘What’s wrong with my nose?’

‘It means you’re face blind. See it, forget it. You can’t remember. Bully for you.’

‘People say I look happy.’

‘With that face? If I had a face like that and I couldn’t remember it, I’d be happy…’

‘That bad?’

‘You want my opinion?’

‘Not really. I’ll stay with ignorance.’

‘I’ll give you a tip.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Long sleeves, socks and trousers.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And mittens.’

‘Will it stop the tapping?’

‘No but you’ll not see it happening.’

‘Thanks. You’ve been a great help.’

The Wise Personage nodded. ‘And if you’re ever in the market for minor royals, I can always lay my hands on a barely used Earl and a couple of Rt Hons who you’d never know we’re seventy-first in line to be shot come the revolution.’

‘I don’t think I need them now.’

‘Shame.’