Despite my parents’ best efforts, I haven’t grown much in my sixty-five years.

For years during my childhood, they stood me outside in the rain, in a large flower-pot and up to my knees in manure. On the occasional hot, west of Scotland summer days, I’d be treated to special photosynthesis sessions and left to bask in the patio sun-trap.

As I entered my teens and the much desired growing spurt had yet to materialize, drastic action was called for, so my folks took me to one of these themed days out in the country. They wouldn’t tell what it was till we arrived – it was a Medieval Banquet.

Nice. Except when all the other guests got hammered on mead, I was snuck off to the torture chamber for a session on the rack.

I know my parents were keen I grew taller and would do anything to ‘help’ me, but this was stretching it a bit.
(Sorry!)

Anyway, none of it worked (duh!) and here I am, a wee, five feet, four inches short-arse, with an even shorter attention span.

Still, you’ve got to hand it to me (most often because I can’t reach) – I stuck with the programme and the resilience formed in those difficult, early years has stood me in good stead … whenever I now get teased about my height, or lack of, the comments just go right over my head.

Anyway – who cares? Height is all in the mind. As we say here in Glasgow:

‘Guid gear goes intae wee bulk.’

(Translated: ‘good things come in small packages.’)

(Eh? This isn’t what was meant by the prompt: ‘What experiences in life helped you grow the most?)

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