Giraffes

I spend a lot of my time thinking up new lies to tell people. Most recently, I've been telling people about the strange appearance of a newborn giraffe. Although they emerge from the womb already five feet tall, at least four feet of that height is in the legs: a baby giraffe has a very short neck. This is because a long neck would probably snap off as it passed through the birth canal: I guess that's evolutionary pressures for you.

It's only as the giraffe matures that its neck lengthens, each of the bones in the neck lengthening so that a fully grown giraffe can snaffle leaves from the top of tall trees, while its legs remain pretty much the same length as when it was born.

This information is met with disbelief and derision. I remember when I could lie about the number of nostrils a monkey had, or the number of times I'd had monkey testicles implanted to impart youth-supplying testosterone to my fifty-year old body. Now, it seems I can't convince people of the simplest giraffe-related fact.

I'd tried. I'd told everyone I met. Perhaps that was why I had encountered such scepticism. It must be odd to have somebody tell you about the adolescent development of a giraffe's physique, when the only words you'd said to them were "hello" or "which flight are you checking in for?" or "this table is already occupied, please go away?"

Still, I persevered. I really made an effort. I even memorised some words from a biology textbook, but it turns out that dropping the phrase "large intestine" into a conversation doesn't instantly confer authority upon yourself.

I was on the verge of giving up hope, when my friend sent me this image.


It turns out I was telling the truth all along.

Seriously, there's no such thing as Photoshop.