I stand 6 ft 4 ½ in barefoot. Back in the 1970s that made me practically a giant. The first time I fully realized this was standing in a carriage on the Paris Metro when I was 19 and a friend whispered, “They’re all staring at you”. Surreptitiously checking my flies weren’t open, I looked around and they weren’t so much staring as gawping. For the first time in my life, I didn’t just feel taller than average – I felt like a freak.
Don’t get me wrong – most of the time, I enjoy being tall. A colleague on the BBC’s Nine O’Clock News once complained that the only reason people tended to trust me was my height. He probably wasn’t wrong (it certainly wasn’t my competence). And when met – as one so often is these days – with rudeness or indifference in shops, the ability to “hulk” comes in handy. (This doesn’t work with bartenders who, protected by a counter, seem determined to serve anyone but the well-mannered gorilla standing directly in front of them).
The only real drawbacks have been trying to find clothes that fit and the sheer torture of sitting in cinema, theatre and airplane seats with the sort of leg-room even Douglas Bader would have complained about.
I used to be diffident about using my heft to gain advantage when boarding trains and buses, but now that the law of the jungle prevails (in London, at least) I will occasionally wade into a scrum of bodies if I judge that the massed ranks of urban hobbits are taking advantage of my sheer niceness: after all, if they don’t want to queue, I’m the one who’ll benefit.
But mostly I try not to let my size impact on other people – I constantly risk curvature of the spine by scrunching down in seats so the person behind isn’t unsighted; I make sure my big feet aren’t sticking out into the aisle on the tube; and, when seated beside someone, I keep my knees pressed together and my shoulders hunched so I won’t invade their space. Mind you, it’s odd how often swarthy, vertically-challenged males find it hard to show the same courtesy to me, as they habitually extend their elbows over both armrests and splay their little legs to either side as if suffering from elephantiasis of the testicles. Why?
The first time I recall feeling utterly standard in terms of height was in a bar in Houston 30 years ago, but the length of my hair and the absence of a gun or a beer gut or a uniform made it plain I was not one of the regulars. Then four years ago I was doing some work in Copenhagen for Danmarks Radio, their equivalent of the BBC, when my client announced that the Director General was about to address the staff in person – did I mind tagging along to the mass meeting? No, sure, fine.
I didn’t understand a word of what was being said - except for the odd English phrase which creeps startlingly into speeches abroad – but I’d been at enough of these events to guess that a restructure and voluntary redundancies were in the offing… belt-tightening inevitable… live within our means… public service… value for money… great programming tradition… exciting opportunities offered by New Media etc.
Or maybe he was announcing a change to the canteen menu. Who knows?
In any case, as my mind wandered and I glanced around, my world tilted slightly. Couldn’t put my finger on it at first. Then it came to me: I looked absolutely and completely as if I belonged here. Broad, bearded, fair-haired, bit of a gut, lumberjack shirt, somewhere between six-three and six-four. If I’d been able to speak Danish, I could have swapped identities with half the blokes in that room.
Suddenly, I was - as near-as-dammit - normal. It was a soothing, comfortable sensation. To be honest, I was sorry when the meeting eventually broke up (either they’d all been fired or elk steaks were off the menu – Scandinavians always look as if someone close to them died).
If I live long enough, I’ll probably recapture that sensation here in the UK. Britons are getting taller: the average height for the 25-35 age group is five ten, but if you lump in all the oldsters, that shrinks by two inches, suggesting a distinct and recent vertical surge. Judging by the height of my son and his beanpole friends, the next generation is hurrying to catch the Danes (five eleven) and even the Dutch, who are European champions at nearly six one.
With any luck, I’ll end up being buried in a medium-sized coffin.
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