I woke a little after 8 this morning in the grip of the memory foam matress that had mysteriously absorbed my body during the night - forming an odd blacmange mould of my entire frame.
After extracating myself from it’s marsh-mallow embrace, and tip-toeing clumsily into the bathroom, I wrestled with a shower cubicle so narrow that washing my hair became an origami exercise in elbow folding to avoid either clattering the window blinds on one side, or the folding glass door on the other.
Out of the shower, drying myself with the towel became a similar logistical exercise - turning this way and that to avoid punching bottles off the edge off the sink, or clattering the towel rail, or folding divider separating the bathroom area from the landing and bedroom.
Perhaps I should explain. I’m six foot three inches tall. The cottage we are staying in was built several hundred years ago - when people were at least a foot shorter. I have to duck throughout the entire cottage. Every doorway. My legs don’t even fit under the dining table.
Don’t get me wrong - the cottage is wonderful. A picture postcard embued with every expectation we might carry about an ancient dwelling in the shadow of a victorian church in a historic town in the Welsh borders. A time portal.
In writing “victorian church”, I should perhaps also volunteer that the parish records show that a church has existed on this site since the 1100s. Nearly a thousand years ago. Properly ancient.
My other half appeared a few moments ago - asking why I didn’t wake her. Being a foot shorter than me, she wandered into the room without ducking, and sat at the table without clattering her knees against it. I’m almost jealous.
I have my uses though - lifting heavy things - reaching high things.
I am reminded of the “law of the giants”. If you’ve never encountered it, it goes something like this:
“As a tall person I cannot offer to reach something on a high shelf for a stranger, yet if they ask me I must oblige. This is the law of the giants.”