Is It Just Me? (14 page)

Sure, that wasn’t our finest moment. And it’s particularly galling as we were at the time standing directly next to an actual lamppost. I would ask, MDRC: ‘Is it just me or has anyone else ever been mistaken for a lamppost by a pigeon?’ but I have a sinking feeling that on that one I am alone. (I have since been what can only be described as flinchy around pigeons, a major downside of London living.) In fact, the pigeon and I will always have a cold, distant relationship but, Little M, it hasn’t done us too much lasting harm and makes for a mildly amusing dinner party story.

Well, I’m glad it’s so blooming funny to you.

I tell you what
was
funny – the dwarf moment.

Oh, no . . .

I am going to tell. This one’s simply too good to gloss over.

When you’re tall, MDRC, sometimes you don’t notice everything that’s going on below you, which mostly means you trip over the odd shoe or bollard. But, years ago, when I was about sixteen, at my young cousin’s fifth birthday party, it meant that I completely failed to notice that one of the other children’s parents was a dwarf. Early in the proceedings, I became aware of my little cousin blubbing, so I bent to comfort her. I was distracted, and chatting merrily away to a friend as I picked her up. Yes, you’ve guessed it: I picked up the forty-two-year-old dwarf parent. I looked at her and – naturally, as I was expecting the five year old – screamed right in her face in fright. I quickly followed it up with a, ‘Gosh, I’m so sorry, it’s . . . I thought . . . no, well . . . let me pop you back there . . .’ as I placed her back down from whence she came.

Totally mortificato.

Tell me about it. She actually found it hilarious.

Good for her. But you know what really WASN’T hilarious? That disco last night. I am still cringing under my duvet.

I think I’ve probably blanked that out, along with every other teenage party I might have braved.

Well, let me remind you. Last night, right, Bella ended up snogging Biffo when she KNEW I fancied him. But I didn’t mind coz the guy I was sitting next to was quite gorge with floppy hair like Judd Nelson from
The Breakfast Club
and he was actually flirting with me. You know, that very, very RARE occurrence?

EXCUSE ME! I think you’ll find in the future it’s not all
that
rare. There was that time when . . . with the man who . . . at the . . . umm . . . and there was that guy . . . Oh, all right then. Go on.

Unaware of the nearly two-foot height difference between us, he only went and asked me to dance. How brill, I never get asked to dance! We got up and I looked straight ahead and couldn’t see anyone. I looked down and there he was . . . looking straight into my . . . you know . . .

Let’s call it ‘nipple height’.

Urh, gross. I was towering over him like, well, a tower – the Eiffel Tower . . . Neither of us wanted to hurt each other’s feelings so we soldiered on to the dance floor . . .

Wait, wasn’t this the night that we designed the ‘lower-our-height with-knee-bend’ manoeuvre?

Yes. I immediately bent one leg, and slid the other right forward so as to lower my height. I was more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, really. But then I was stuck like that and everyone was giggling at us, and my experience as Waltzing Man in Ballroom Scene meant I immediately wanted to lead, which didn’t go down too well and the waltz didn’t work because they were playing ‘Crazy Crazy Nights’ by Kiss. So we stood a little apart and after a couple of jokey
Grease
moves . . .

Well done. Good save.

I just wanted the ground to swallow me up . . .

Or just a foot or so, so you’d be level.

This is NOT FUNNY.

Soz.

I wanted to run away from him, but I thought that would be too mean. So I did the simple Kylie shuffle from side to side move.

Nice.

But because I was squatting to lower my height it looked a bit like I was trying to do a number two. That’s when I got the nickname . . . umm . . .

Let it out: exorcise it.

The Poo Dancer.

There it is. The Poo Dancer. The squatty poo move. Please feel free to try it home whether you are of the lanky persuasion or not. Such fun.

I have to concede, that was a truly rotten night. But you recovered pretty swiftly I seem to remember, little one?

I ran to the loos and ate my shoulder pads.

There’s a sentence.

All this evidence does seem to point towards the fact that a considerable man–lady height difference can prove to be a bit of a problem. It takes a particularly robust and confident man to scurry merrily alongside a much taller woman. And it takes an extraordinary calibre of woman, I think, to not mind being ever so much taller than her mate.

As with everything, I suppose, there are pluses and minuses to being tall and, for the benefit of all those women who are a good bit taller than average (and other interested parties), I shall now present:

MIRANDA’S PLUSES AND MINUSES OF BEING TALL

^*
sounds trumpet, waves ceremonial flag
^*

Oh. Good. Another list. Coz that will help
^*
dives back under the Ramsay Street duvet
^*

TEN GOOD THINGS ABOUT BEING TALL

1. You exude a natural sense of authority, and people often bow to your judgement
   . Which is very good for getting your own way in relationships, and in arguments at work.
   
2. If you have short hair, you will occasionally be mistaken for a man and referred to as ‘sir’
   . This is a boon when trying to avoid the Ladies queue at the theatre (though you may find yourself rumbled at the urinals).
   
3. You can generally see the tops of people’s heads
   . Which gives you a pleasing sense of all-knowingness and power.
   
4. People always have something to talk about with you
   . ‘Are your parents tall?’ or ‘Have you ever met a woman taller than you?’ and ‘Do you have
   awful
   trouble finding clothes?’
   
5. You can shop in special tall-lady clothes shops
   . Which are sometimes absolutely hilarious. One branch of a Well-Known Tall Lady Emporium has nine-foot-high doors and over-sized chairs – supposedly to make us feel petite for once.
   
6. You can, potentially, be very good at basketball
   . Always helpful to have the option.
   
7. Your feet are likely to be large
   . Which means that you get (scientists have proved) at least fifteen times more pleasure from splashing about in puddles than your smaller-footed peers.
   
8. People will describe you as ‘statuesque’
   . Which can make you feel rather marvellous and regal. Not to mention highly valuable, much-admired and timeless, like a Greek goddess.
   

   When you are young, thin and tall, you get asked if you would consider modelling, which is excellent for the self-esteem.
   

   When you are older, bigger and tall, you can use your frame for comic effect both personally and professionally.
   

9. You will never be able to comfortably travel in an economy-class seat on an aeroplane
   . Which means you might get upgraded to first class because the only way you can otherwise fit in your seat is by putting your feet in the aisles, thereby tripping up the air hostesses.
   
10. You will never get lost in a crowd
    . Which means that you can act as a Pied Piper/human beacon on days out with friends in frightening, crowded areas e.g. Disneyland/carnivals/the IKEA sales.
    

TEN LESS-GOOD THINGS ABOUT BEING TALL

1. You exude a natural sense of authority, and people very often bow to your judgement
   . Which can lead to you making decisions you are in no way qualified to make e.g. how best to re-wire a plug/which route to take to Aberystwyth/whether or not that fish has gone off.
   
2. If you have short hair, you will occasionally be mistaken for a man and referred to as ‘sir’
   . Which means that old ladies will sometimes ask you to help them with their heavy shopping.
   

   If you dress up in anything vaguely sequiny, you might be mistaken for a transvestite.
   

3. You can generally see the tops of people’s heads
   . Which means that you very often get an eyeful of dandruff, and see the sun bouncing off one-too-many sweaty bald spots.
   
4. People always have something to talk about with you
   . ‘Are your parents tall?’ or ‘Have you ever met a woman taller than you?’ and ‘Do you have
   awful
   trouble finding clothes?’ This can make you want to punch them in the face. After all, you can’t say to someone, ‘Gosh, you’re fat, aren’t you?’ or ‘Gosh, what a massive mole that is’ and ‘Have you met a woman with a mole bigger than that?’
   
5. You can shop in special tall-lady clothes shops
   . Which means that you have to cut the labels out of your clothes so that no one finds out you shop at ‘Big and Long’. And you are constantly reminded of being different.
   
6. You can, potentially, be very good at basketball
   . I have no need of being good at it. It’s not a necessary life skill. Unless you are a professional basketball player and then it’s a key skill.
   
7. Your feet are likely to be very large
   . Which means that you could end up wearing big, flat, grey Velcro man-shoes. Or diamante pumps purchased from a shop that caters mainly for transvestites.
   
8. People will describe you as ‘statuesque’
   . Which you worry might be a euphemism for ‘absolutely bloody massive, moss-encrusted and cracked, like a ropey statue in a municipal park’.
   

   When you are young, thin and tall, statuesque means looming over much shorter men, tripping up, and generally feeling lanky and unfeminine.
   

   When you are older, bigger and tall, statuesque means being unable to find a man whose lap you can sit on and not break his back.
   

9. You will never be able to comfortably travel in an economy-class seat on an aeroplane
   . Which means that you’ll spend countless flights bent double, moaning and massaging your feet for fear of DVT. Or desperately pacing up and down the plane like a caged animal, refusing to sit, and being furious at the fact that they NEVER UPGRADE YOU TO FIRST CLASS. Any form of transit is pretty much agony.
   
10. You will never get lost in a crowd
    . Which is bad luck when you’re trying to hide from the police/your newly spurned lover/dealing with new-found and alarming fame.
    

There you have it. Pros and cons, ups and downs, swings and roundabouts. Overall, I think you’ll find –

Uh, just one thing? You used the word ‘bigger’. ‘When you’re older, BIGGER and still tall.’ Just what did you mean by ‘bigger’?

Oh, dear. Well, Young Miranda, although we stay roughly the same height as you are now, I hate to have to tell you that we do expand a little . . . uh . . . widthways.

WHAT???? We get FAT?

We gain a bit of . . . ballast.

OhGodohGodohGod . . . What, so at thirty-eight, we’re old AND fat? I am going to have a panic attack.

Stop being over-dramatic.

Over-dramatic? I GET FAT. This is a DISASTER. My lovely figure. My-my-my
legs
! My legs are all I have! My lovely young, toned, brown, sporty legs! The rest of me is hideola. My face looks like a jellied horse –

Well, although many people agree with you on that and, indeed, take the effort to tell you, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve developed a sort of affection for this dear old face of ours. It’s characterful. It’s friendly. And it’s a face that couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else. It’s very much a ‘Miranda’ face. And I like that about it.

You’re clearly fat AND insane. What about our ridiculous turning-in toes, our weirdly fine hair, our rounded shoulders, our lanky walk? Have you developed a ‘sort of affection’ for all of those, as well?

Yep. Don’t worry. It’ll take a bit of time, but around the age of thirty-six you’ll realise that you’ve only got the one body, so you might as well enjoy it. Make the most of what God gave you, and crack on with your life as nicely as possible. Maybe, even – dare I say it – celebrate what you’ve got. Make merry with it. Enjoy!

But I enjoy having a good figure . . .

Well, there are lots of advantages to being on the heavier side.

What could there possibly be?

Numero uno: you realise pretty quickly that you’re never going to get what one of the viler magazines might refer to as a ‘bikini body’ so, instead of doing a hundred sit-ups twice a day, you can opt out of all that perfectionist malarkey. And you can spend your energy developing other personal qualities. Like being funny. And galloping. And learning complex dance routines, which become suddenly hilarious when you whack on a leotard and try to perform them. All that lovely stuff.