BY MICHAEL KOZIOL
I am five foot five. When I dust off my nice boots with the cowboy heels, I manage five foot seven. It’s nowhere near towering but at least it’s approaching the neighbourhood of “average”. Still, at 22, and with the sun now well and truly set on the possibility of a surprise growth spurt, I must face the crippling reality: I am a short man.
I am also slight of build with almost no natural capacity, it seems, of obtaining muscles. I’ve been described as a “tempest of power” – a euphemism, I suppose, for someone with a big personality but a tiny body. If you squint I could disappear from view entirely, which is great should I ever follow through on my childhood intent of becoming a private investigator stalking adulterers from my car. But it’s a hindrance for almost anything else.