Forget about Belgium. Or Wales. This is all about me.
Earlier this year we were looking at new cars; new to us, I mean. Except for a long time one couldn’t look at anything, but Daughter did research. But the Resident IT Consultant could see one big problem she’d not thought about. ‘We need a car to fit Mummy’, he said.
And yes, that would be a serious problem. Not many cars out there bigger than me… What he meant was that I am fussy, and I care about car seats that are comfortable to sit in. Never mind the 0 to 60 in some smallish number of seconds. Not too high, nor too low. Not leaning back too much, nor too terribly upright. Enough knee room for my short legs. Just right.
The other day as I spoke to Son on the phone, about us taking the plunge – in the car that fits me – to go and visit them for the first time in six months, I mentioned the potted palm. Did they by any chance want it? I had run out of places that were big enough while still dark enough.
After enquiring about its size, and being told it was as tall as I am (so not very), I could hear him shouting to Dodo ‘do we want a palm the size of my mother?’
It seems they did. Apart from height, it’s a slender little thing. Nothing at all like the size of me. It even fit into the car, at the same time as me!
So there you go. Feel free to use me as a yardstick. Speaking of which, I got my inch measuring thing out recently, only to discover it was centimetres only.