epsiode 20

Where have all the tall men gone?

Last week I wrote about the lock and key party, where one of the overwhelming characteristics of the men there was their height - or lack of it. Before I get accused of being heightist, I would like to stress that I'm not. I'm not at all tall (five two), and I have a huge crush on Declan Donnelly. I rest my case.
However I have a friend who is tall. She's five eight and she loves wearing heels. And although she has dated guys who are shorter than her when in those heels, she's not quite at the Tom Cruise stage. The guys at the lock and key party were all far too small for her, and she would rather not carry a box around for him to stand on.
We were going to a party in Central London. It wasn't a singles night, (I've given them up), just a normal, birthday party for a friends' husband. In fact you could tell it wasn't a singles night because there were far more men than women, (although of course they weren't all single).
We arrived late and as the birthday boy and my friend introduced us around it became clear that everyone had been drinking for quite a long time; there were wobbly men, slurring men, squinting men, and rowdy men. It was I have to say, slightly scary. We collected a glass of Champagne and started playing catch up. A couple of drinks later and a turn of the room and my friend pulled me to one side.
'What's wrong?' I asked.
'Where have all the tall men gone?' she hissed.
I looked around, she was right; there were no tall men yet again. If she wanted a man, it looked like she might have to embrace pigmy dating.
I decided, in the name of being a good friend to embark on a secret mission. I started working the room again with the aim of finding at least one tall man. Even with my James Bond-like skills, I failed.
Apart from anything else, this made me feel slightly perplexed. Two parties, no tall men; what had happened to them? Had they all gone into hiding? Moved to Scotland? Been banned from going out? My friend seemed to be convinced this was the case.
'It's not that I'm being difficult but I just can't date a guy that's too much shorter than me. After all this guy I went out with once had the same size shoes as me and that was just wrong.'
I emphasised with her; although I was slightly envious knowing I would never have long legs.
I got her a drink and asked her if perhaps she would consider wearing flats. The look of horror that crossed her face told me her answer. I quickly got her another drink.
I met some (short) men who were also clearly more than a tad merry. One guy worked in TV and on discovering that I was a writer, questioned me on what I was working on and then demanded that I, 'Pitch it to me, go one, pitch it. It's all about the f******g pitch.' I told him about my column and his eyes widened, 'I SAID PITCH IT.' I was terrified. I decided to stay close to my married friend and we spent the rest of the evening gossiping and keeping away from scary man.
At one point, my tall friend returned from the bar looking ashen.
'More short men?' I asked; she shook her head.
It turned out that she'd been cornered by a guy who admired her large, diamante cocktail ring and told her it would look good on a certain part of his anatomy. After we stopped laughing, we asked ourselves if we were too fussy. I mean we've moaned about men being too young, too short, too dull, or too weird, (not to mention the IT thing). Then we decided that we'd rather be fussy than desperate. Or end up with a guy who uses lines like ring man, or says 'pitch it to me,' when you're at the height of passion.
I'd take being single any day.
We had a couple more cocktails, and then got a call from a friend who was in town. So we all arranged to meet up at Soho House. By now the drunk men were all attempting to dance, and well, take it from me it wasn't a pretty sight. We left.
Although it wasn't far to walk, our shoes weren't suitable so we decided to be indulgent and get a cab. However, it was late, it was the weekend and black cabs are like gold dust. In Soho there are always the rickshaw boys. I try to avoid them because it feels like they're for the tourists and also they charge extortionate amounts for short journeys, and don't get me started on what it does to your hair. However, we had no choice. Luckily we got a new boy who took our first offer (which was incredibly low). To say that he drove like a maniac is being kind. I think I ate half of my hair and when he ground to a sudden halt outside Soho House I almost fell right into the entrance.
Standing up, pretending that not everyone was staring at us and trying to rescue my remaining hair, we went to the bar
'Oh my God,' my friend exclaimed, as we walked in.
'What?' I asked.
'I've found them.'
'Who?'
'The tall men.'
I swear Hallelujah started playing. I looked around and lo and behold the bar was full of them. Tall men standing, sitting, walking, talking, drinking. My friend looked as if she'd just won the lottery and we made our way to meet our friend, who had three tall friends with him. Hope had been restored. So, now if anyone asks where have all the tall men gone, we'll send them to Soho House. The only problem was that after the party, and cocktails and the rather hair raising rickshaw ride we were far too exhausted to take advantage of our new playground. Although there's always next time.

Next week: PPBE (Perfect Post-Break up Evening)