My Dad Is Six Foot Five

"You're not very big are you Dave?" said Mrs N#3's son to me at the weekend. Before I could reply he came out with "My Dad is six foot five. He's massive."

What do you say to that?

"Well I wish I'd had the forethought when I was younger to think myself tall. What an achievement that must have been? I was only two foot six when I started big school, but I worked really hard at it and when I left I was six foot five."

I came out with the first thing in my head (usually a bad sign): "Really? That must come in handy (thinks: when the circus are in town)."

Of course after the event I think of better replies such as "Crikey, all that money I wasted on those ladders." or "ask him to bend down and clear that guttering for me will you."

This happens periodically. Several weeks ago we had "You're feet are quite small aren't they Dave, what size are they?"

"Erm, I guess so, I'm size eight, maybe a nine sometimes."

"Really? My Dad is size thirteen."

"Great, I'll remember that if ever we want to go white water rafting."

A few weeks later we were in a large shopping centre near Leeds. We went past a sports shop that had a huge promotion going on in the window, which included a GIGANTIC training shoe, the biggest that you have ever seen, maybe four foot across this thing.

"Wow, look at that shoe, that's massive that is," says George.

"Yes," I helpfully agree. "What sort of GIANT CIRCUS BOY wears a shoe like that?" I verbally ponder.

"Whoever wears shoes that big must be one ENORMOUS SIDESHOW FREAK," I conclude guffawing in the style of Blackadder.

"What size is it Dave?" George helpfully asks.

"Erm, I'm not sure, let's have a look, rubbing the window furiously, looks like a twelve and a half I think...."