Me and cameras have never really got on.
While others are entirely at ease with being on captured on film (or nowadays, should that be screen?), I've spent my life avoiding having my photo taken. Even as a child I'd often be seen running away from the clicking lens; stubbornly covering my face or bursting into tears when my parents managed to snap me unawares.
Thankfully, the urge to have a huge tantrum faded over the years. But point a camera at me now and I still shrivel a bit inside; becoming the picture of awkwardness instead of the confident 28 year old I might have pegged myself as minutes earlier.
It's just I've never really known what to do. I become instantly aware of my face, of the attention being on me, of needing to brush that front bit of my hair down and produce the perfect pose, or worse - much to my guilt - having that sinking feeling that those next to me will inevitably look better.
Although these feelings go through my mind, I still smile, pull a funny face, grab a friend, get into the moment, whatever. I'll try to act like I'm not bothered whether the result's good or bad. You won't find me zooming in and inspecting the damage, or demanding a re-take so that improvements can be made; mostly because I'm never sure what I'd do differently the second time.
Where photos were once pinned on bedroom walls and framed as good, bad and comically terrible memories, on show for only those we invited in to see, now we live in a different world.
We're defined - online, at least - by the profile pictures we choose to represent us. Photo editing apps like the iPhone's Instagram capitalise on this need to show our best side at all times. We're given filters, fading and flashes of brilliant white to transform our faces and surroundings into something that's, at times, almost unrecognisable from reality.
Instagram smooths away the bad bits, fading them into sepia, giving images a nostalgic, wistful, aged look they're not old enough to have. Defining features are either blanked out or enhanced. An overcast, rainy day is given a romantic blur with a hint of warmth that wasn't there. A blemished face is made deathly pale against dark, vivid eyes.
At a later date, I imagine a generation of children wondering where our faces went, and pondering what we really looked like in our twenties.
For a camera-phobe like myself, Instagram and the like should be the answer to all my worries. Except my impulse to cringe at photos of myself extends even to the flattering ones, after all: what does one do with a nice photo these days if you don't feel confident enough to share it?
To publicly show off these nice photos feels strange; it's like my brain hasn't yet caught up with the 21st century need to have to show a lot of people enhanced images of my face.
Didn't that used to be considered - perhaps, maybe, slightly - a little bit vain?
My aversion to the endless stream of flattering self-portraits in my online feeds is probably less down to genuine concern for those who need that all important "like", and more because I don't have the confidence to do it myself.
And sometimes, I don't know which side of the Instagrammed fence I'd rather be on.
My childhood aversion to the camera remains, but at least I've conceded one thing from my parent's covert tactics - that the best photos will always be those you don't know are being taken.