Hunched back. Check. Crooked warty nose. Check. Oversized black hat with matching cloak. Also, check.

Who would argue that these features weren’t defining of a witch?

Apparently a vast number of my customers. Apparently being a man doesn’t suit a witch. No matter how much I tuck.

I even brought a cat would you believe it! All black, leaving trails of hair in all my food and clothes. Little Silica I called her.

Day in and out I spend my time stirring a large cauldron of bubbling broths and alchemical potions. Only today was slightly different.

One of my customers from last week got a little annoyed upon finding out my gender. I didn’t think much of it. Just because I'm a man, doesn’t mean I can’t do the job of a witch. However. In the eyes of a grieving widow, who spent an hour of my day moaning about how hard her life had gotten. I had committed a terrible act of fraud. As such I find myself shackled to a wall, deep within a cavern down the road from my shop that no doubt was being ransacked.

Such a shame. I had always dreamt of being a witch too. Nanny Bubblespot had always said I was very ‘witchy’. Though that might have just been witch speak for ‘you have a rather crooked nose’.

Suppose I'll have to quit now. Hang up my cloak. Begin partaking in morning yoga to straighten my back. Then again. Perhaps I simply wasn’t witchy enough for this town of dullards. When these despicable sorts set me free I shall procure a taller hat, a darker cloak and tuck myself a little further back. Perhaps at the cost of some functionality.

I shall rebrand. Reimage. And for a lack of better words, ram my alembic down this town's throat.

This town will sing the name of me. Witch Trunkpop!.