A SHORT STORY (VERY VERY LATE I.P.)

I am a small person. Not too far outside the usual bounds of what may be considered ‘normal’, and definitely not small in build; but shorter than is expected for a fully-grown adult human. Vertically challenged is the polite description.

It wasn’t always this way. I started life considerably smaller of course but actually a fairly average size. I was tall when I was ten; so tall that I was a very successful goalie in the school netball team, having already reached the dizzy height of 5 foot nothing. In fact, at grammar school they used me as the measure to set up the badminton net right through my school career.

But that was to be the full extent of my stature. It was all downhill from there. The only thing that grew after the age of 10 was my bosom. I became slightly peeved as my school-fellows gradually overtook me in height, and became more and more aware of the drawbacks of littleness, many of which still rankle to this day; indeed, as suppleness and athleticism decrease in direct proportion to increasing age, life becomes even more difficult.

Take public transport. If you have ever had the misfortune to be travelling on a 208 London bus from Lewisham to Bromley in the rush hour, you will be aware that about a hundred people will be competing for about twenty seats. I will do the math for you (what a horrible expression that is!) – that means about 80 people standing. My figures may well be a bit exaggerated, but it sure feels like that if you are one of the miserable folk jostling for space on the hand holds – or in my case the seat backs – the hanging straps being way out of my reach, unless I wish to entertain the assembled crowd with an impromptu trapeze act. Which I do not.

Much the same applies on the Underground, but as my area of SE London is not blessed with a tube line anywhere nearby, this has never bothered me much.

The overground trains are the worst. In my younger days, travelling mainly between Lewisham and London Bridge, not a terribly long journey, I seldom ever got a seat, with the same difficulties as described on the buses, though being more agile I could ride the waves as it were. Then, as now, getting off the train was the most bothersome exercise, the space between train and platform being a gaping chasm; however when young and fit, even in heels, I usually managed to jump off and land safely, though I did twist my ankle once or twice when platform soles and very high heels or wedges were in fashion.

Now, as a grandmother, I find myself avoiding travelling on trains alone, simply for fear of falling off, losing a shoe, or, as has happened to someone I know, becoming trapped between train and platform.

If I do have to use the train, I first make sure I don’t have too much to carry and am wearing lightweight clothes and sensible footwear. (If someone designed a suitable train-travel outfit based I imagine on mountaineering garb they would make a fortune.) On approaching East Croydon (one of the worse gaps), I fervently hope I am positioned at the point where the gap is smallest. When the doors open, I step gingerly onto the top step then launch myself blindly into the air, having chucked any large bags out first. Surely this is no way for a grandmother to travel in the 21st Century? Where are the Health & Safety people when you need them?

Shopping presents similar challenges. Tall shoppers (usually male) were once pleased to assist a helpless petite young lady. In later years, my family were mostly fed on items stacked on the lower shelves in the supermarket, or near the top of a full freezer; nowadays, out of respect for ageing hips etc., not only are the top shelves out of the question, but the bottom ones too, and a freezer has to be very full indeed before I will risk leaning into it, for fear of falling in. Can anyone recommend a ‘middle shelves only’ diet book?

I do try to kid myself that what I lack in height I make up for in intellect, but this is of small comfort when facing lifes’ big challenges.

But it is not always doom and gloom down here. Years ago, I could sometimes fit into childrens clothes, which were considerably cheaper than their adult equivalents, as they carried no purchase tax. And at a posh dinner-dance back in the late 60s/early 70s, my partner and I won a prize during a ‘spot waltz’ (you young ones, look it up) for being the couple with the greatest difference in our heights. The cry from the MC was ‘This gentleman boasts one foot three and a half inches!’ Ha jolly ha. He had very large feet too. I married him briefly. (The gentleman not the MC).

On one memorable occasion back in 1964 or thereabouts the Beatles were appearing at the Lewisham Odeon, just down the road from me. Neither I nor any one I knew managed to get tickets, but we all decided to join the crowds waiting to see them arrive. The shorties were elected to be pushed through the window of the Ladies’ toilet, the idea being to then let in friends. We didn’t see the obvious flaw in this plan back then – the floodgates would then be opened for the several thousand other screaming girls to enter too. Anyway, it didn’t come to that. Getting in was easy – straight into the arms of several bouncers who shoved everyone straight back out again. So in the end all we got to see of the Fab Four was a large black limo and a glimpse of their legs as they were hurried into the building. Nice try though I reckon.

It’s funny how tall men often, in my experience, go for short women. Brings out the caveman in them I suppose. My first husband, the aforementioned dance partner, was well above average height, and my husband of some 40 years is a handsome, well-built six footer, which comes in handy when amongst other things I have to jump up in a fashion most unbecoming to my seniority to shut the car boot.

Indeed us shorties are disadvantaged in many ways; biggies overlook us both figuratively and literally. They often walk into us and knock us over, and employers definitely discriminate both in employment and promotion. Like most biggies, they just don’t take you seriously, what with your ill-fitting clothes, bad backs and black eyes etc.

Now, many years on, I can’t say there’s anything to celebrate concerning deficiencies in the height department. Having grown wider as well as shorter, I resemble Sponge Bob Square Pants, and find it impossible to find affordable clothes that fit properly. ‘What about Petite fittings?’ I hear you cry. Well, I am here to tell you that these are aimed at people of around 5’2” to 5’4”, dizzy heights which I have yet to reach. Though these garments fit somewhat better that the ‘normal’ sizes, they still do not go in and out in the same places that I do. It’s the same with boots; anything longer goes out where I go in, so it’s ankle boots for me.

What can be done? Should we pass specific anti-shortism laws? And if so, at what height should we set the bar? Should companies be forced to employ a set quota of shorties? I doubt if it would work anyway; there are laws about ageism, but these are got round by simply inventing ways in which the young, attractive (and probably tall) person who got the job can be said to be actually better qualified for it than you with your 40 years experience.

But as I face life as a little old lady, I am not bitter, bolshie and over-sensitive like some shorties. I have done my best with what I have available, but am glad that my son is a six-footer like his Dad, and my daughters are of a more ‘normal’ height too.

Will things be better in the future? I doubt it.

The disadvantages remain the same, and my expectation of being offered seats on buses has proved ill-founded, which I choose to take as a compliment in spite of aching back and legs. However I am much less worried about asking for height-related help now; for age does seem to relax the inhibitions as you realise just how short life is. So next time you see a pair of legs sticking out of a freezer, with a small person shouting for assistance as she grasps the last pack of fish fingers, please think of me and lend a hand.