I want to be two inches taller. No more, just two inches. There are many reasons why and here are just a few: I’ll be able to reach the top shelf of the freezer section in the supermarket – which is where they keep all the yummy veggie stuff – without perching precariously on the lower arm of a trolley that threatens to roll away just as you’re in the middle of a full stretch; the wider parts of me won’t look so out of proportion; my weight will slide back into the safe area of the chart; I won’t have to take up my trousers; sleeves will never be too long; I will have to duck, like all the other adults, when I enter the castle in the children’s park to mop tears; I’ll be able to tap my pin number into the keypad at the bar without standing on the foot rail; my husband will be able to find me in a crowd; my fear of crowds will dissipate; I shall no longer have to suffer train journeys with my nose stuffed with swirls of tissue so I can avoid the smell of eau-de-armpit; I want to be able to reach the pedals without having to move the seat so far forward my boobs rest on the steering wheel; people won’t pat me on the head; I’ll be allowed on the big rides; police won’t pull me over for not using a booster seat.
Okay, the last two were jokes and anyone with an arse like mine does not need a booster seat!
But there is nothing to be done about my lack of stature. What about heels, I hear you ask. Well, apart from the inconvenient tendency I have to fall over a dense patch of air, they hurt…a lot. I’m not into self-harming, I detest pain too much. What about platforms, you may replay, well ditto the falling over thing plus they’re not particularly attractive and how am I supposed to work the car’s pedals? Yes, yes, I know, I’m being picky. SHooting down each suggestion without weighing up the pros and cons, but I will not waver on the point about pain; so maybe I ought to give platforms a go.
I’ll try them out and let you know my verdict – I’ll call you while I’m in traction!