It’s been all about the “you’re small” for the past day.

It started at work with a colleague trying ‘explain’ that they don’t see me as small, “just HLL”. As I pointedly pointed out, they wouldn’t say this to any of our other colleagues or friends as it is a given.

It was genuine curiosity, yes, as I fit into any particular ‘box’ i.e. don’t fit the perception of being a disabled person – whatever that may be to that particular person in this instance. That it was their own way of communicating that they accept me for me and take me for a person rather than a label.

During this sort of conversation (it’s a regular one, joy of joy) I was sat thinking I could really do without it.

I don’t about know other restricted growth people, but a lot of my physical pain tends to be silent, and this particular day was no exception. So there I was sat in silent agony with my back feeling like someone was trying to stick a rod up the top half (which ibuprofen dulled but certainly wasn’t shifting), wishing I could go home and sleep it off.

But no, I was polite and participated in the conversation because I didn’t want to offend them in thinking they had crossed a line or actually this type of conversation was neither warranted or asked for.

The “You’re Small!” siren didn’t stop there. After a rest and much-wanted sleep, I went out with my beau and sibling for dinner. Whilst waiting at the cash machine we heard the comment “F***kin hell – she should be on stilts” from a young man whose obvious idea of high fashion consisted of tracky bottoms stuffed ever so chicly into their white ankles socks and trainers. Nice. Obviously the two members of our party didn’t take too kindly to this, but as my sibling said: “Can’t say nothing, they might have a knife”.

To be honest after the day I had, that comment was like water off a duck’s back. But it got me wondering about stereotypes – our party’s view of the ‘chav’ and the ‘chav’s’ view of me. Not too deeply mind, I just wanted to enjoy the rest of the evening, which thankfully I did.

The following morning me and the beau took our fortnightly visit to the local supermarket.
One thing I’m really not digging at the moment is the kids being off during the school holidays – so many of them just stare and whilst I reason to my better side that they don’t understand any better, I still find it so rude.

Anyhow at one point the beau went off to find some beef jerky and I was left alone with the mini-trolley in the bakery aisle. I was just reaching for the wholemeal buns when out of nowhere I hear a kid shriek quite proudly to their mum “LITTLE LADY!”.

I froze. There was no other short-stature ladies in the vicinity.

The child’s remark elicited no attention from Mum. Persisting with their new-found discovery and much louder this time exclaimed with much vigor: “THERE’S A LITTLE LADY” pointing directly towards me.

I lingered a second longer to make the parent feel uncomfortable but blooming heck, will I ever get a shopping trip without being made to feel like a Z-list celebrity that bears no financial reward or the weekly OK magazine celeb-column?!?

Thankfully the next 24-hours the “You’re small” siren was mute.