Before I arrived in Hong Kong I wrote about how hard it is being tall in the UK. Oh, the naiivety. Built on a scale of height somewhere between my waist and collarbone, Hong Kong makes the UK look like a tall person’s paradise. For example:
- When flat hunting I had to lie down to check I could sleep in the rooms. 50% of those tested failed.
- When I shower it looks like I’m auditioning for a hip hop video, so elaborate are the shapes I make while trying to rinse my underarms.
- My office chair is so low it makes more sense for me to just kneel.
Space here comes at a premium; in the most densely populated place on Earth, size does matter. Products and buildings are designed to make maximum use of the limited space available, meaning measurements are trimmed down to their utilitarian minimum. If you’re tall, you have to force yourself into the mould or retreat to the wilderness.
Thank God for IKEA. Their "one size fits all" furniture is the only reason I have a bed long enough to fit. If they’d scaled their products down to local standards I’d need a footstool at night to prop up my colossal feet.
The locals aren’t subtle about their shock at my height. When their eyes run up my legs their faces contort in confusion as if analysing a complex subway map. They point. They stare...
... Jealousy’s a bitch, yo.
#PFHK
There's a very tall man living in my building. I am always very embarrassed whenever we entered the lift together; me for shooting him furtive glances at his tall-ness, and for him to stare down my oily, balding scalp (at this height, who can blame him?).
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