The Man With Tiny Feet


After weeks of texting and his endless stream of Snapchat selfies (a little vain perhaps, but at least I know he looks like his pictures and that is HOT!)

Squeezing into my Sandy from Grease trousers and a belly full of nerves, I jump on the tube and venture across the river to Camden, North London.

I spot my date in the distance – it is hard not too, when he is that fit! –  gliding along ‘on Cloud 9’ and beaming from ear to ear, I suddenly feel an almighty crash… is my heel caught in the pavement?  No it’s reality smashing me in the knee caps!

He has lied about his height.

Clinging desperately onto the hope that perhaps he is leaning down, getting something from his pockets, or maybe tying his shoe laces?

Fuck, No, No, No, No….He’s tiny!  I can literally rest my elbow on his shoulder (I’m 5’4 on a good day).   He told me he was 5’11 – this man clearly has height dysmorphia.  Thank God I wore my kitten heels and not my sky high heels!

Strolling around Camden and finding myself walking like the hunchback of Notre Dame so I am at least at hearing level to him, was not my best idea – now my eyes are just fixated upon his tiny child feet.

To make it worse he’s now looking to me for sympathy, as he tells me how much his shoes hurt and he might have to take them off – as he is not wearing socks and rocking the rolled up trouser look, the image of Bilbo Baggins fills my mind and I struggle to hold back the urge to scream…’please don’t do that, you’ll look like a hobbit!’

Staring him dead in the eye (or as close as I can), I tell him to man up as ‘I am a woman and my shoes hurt every day of my life, I have bloodstains and the deformed toes as proof but do us women moan?  No…we just suck it up.’

Walking into the cocktail bar, I assure him that alcohol will numb the pain and that we should head straight to the bar rather than find a seat first, as my overwhelming urge is to get drunk in the vain hope that it might make him appear taller.

Later I glance at the time and realise that shit, I’m in North London and need to get back to the South side of the river and ASAP, before he gets the wrong idea.

Running into the tube station, to find their informative note ‘Sorry you JUST missed the last South bound tube’ – it might as well have said ‘ha ha, now you’re stranded.’

Yet wait, my date has a solution and turns to me saying ‘it will be cheaper for you to get a hotel than a taxi back home.’   Feeling the Mojito I had just downed rise back up in my throat and my skin crawl, I run, I run fast with all my might, salvation is to hand…the night bus!

(The worst part of this is the fact that he is insanely good looking, if only he was taller, but then he  progressed to sending me Snapchats of his tiny, bare feet, walking back home with the caption ‘my feet hurt’ – sob, the evening had started with such excitement and hope!)


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