MY maw sent me some pictures of myself as a wean last week and, I have to admit, it has sent me into a bit of a spiral. I was certainly not the most photogenic baby, as evidenced by these pictures and also by both my maw and my granny repeatedly telling me so. My granny also reminded me that she used to refer to me as ‘Wee Ugly’.

I’m told I had a somewhat traumatic birth. It’s clear to see why; my head was, and still is, massive.

I had to be wrenched out of my poor maw with a pair of forceps, resulting in me having quite considerable swelling on my already giant head. ‘I called ye Cone Heid,’ said my granda. Everything about me was massive, I looked like a post-retirement John Hartson.

There’s a picture of me, around eight months old, sitting next to my cousin who was born only a month or two after me and she is dwarfed by this humungous child. My head had grown in those eight months and, even though the swelling had long since subsided, looked like a curling stone at this point.

I love nothing more than seeing these old pictures, especially seeing ones of my family from before I was born.

Pictures of my granda at a party in the 70s, long hair flowing down his back, vintage cans of Tennent’s on a table, cigarette smoke curling in the air, a floral print couch, a single moment frozen in time forever, a snapshot of a different world.

There’s nothing quite like getting out old photos and laughing, reminiscing and marvelling at times long past.

Then I see a picture of me as a baby again. This big-headed troll staring down the camera with the world’s most glaikit look on its face. Flicking through the album, I start to get a bit older. By three or four, I start to look different. I start to look… normal. So stark is the difference that I’ve begun to wonder, ‘Did my maw swap me for a different wean? Am I an impostor?’

At age four, My head looks maybe only above average in size in proportion to the rest of my body. The receding hairline I looked as if I had, has been replaced by thick curly hair. I stop for a minute and compare two pictures of myself.

I imagine showing these pictures to a stranger and asking if they think this is the same child. I believe most people would reply with a resounding no.

I start to remember something my maw said to me. I remember showing her my hands as a wee boy. ‘Wit’s this?’ I asked her, showing her little bits of skin that were peeling around my nails. ‘Why’s that happening?’

My was, still is, a bit of a joker. She replied, ‘That’s your seams. That’s where you’ve been stitched up. I might need tae take ye back tae the shop.’

‘Wit? Wit shop?’

‘The wee boay shop. You must be faulty. I’ll take you back and get a new wan.’

I hid my faulty hands behind my back. ‘Naw ye won’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll fix it.’

‘Be careful incase they come right undone and you faw apart.’

I sat in my room analysing my hands and feet, looking for stitches that resembled the way a plush Mr Blobby I owned had been sewn together. I couldn’t find any and realised she had been talking mince. I hadn’t thought about that daft conversation we had for years and years until I saw those pictures.

That’s what’s sent me into a bit of a spiral. I have a theory my maw did actually swap me. I know she didn’t buy me from a shop, I’m no that daft, but that wean I see looking back at me in these old pictures? There’s no chance that it’s actually me.

So where did I come from? How did my maw manage to swap her child? Is this a common thing? Where is the original Chris McQueer and what’s he up to? Is he out there, somewhere, plotting my downfall? What would I do if I heard a knock at the door late one night and saw through the spyhole a giant-headed man coming to exact his revenge on me for stealing his life?

These are all questions I’d quite like to have answered but my maw, obviously, denies it all.

I think she just didn’t like the look of the original me. Going by the pictures, I seem to be quite torn faced and looked like a nightmare. The kind of wean that would greet all through the night, throw tantrums and just generally make a nuisance of themselves. I don’t blame her actually, now that I think about it some more.