Dear Big People…

I’ve always been a tiny person. At 4’10”, I’ve endured a lifetime of being gawped at, patted, picked up, spammed and manhandled by your formidable ilk. When it comes to the daily commute, I’m routinely squashed, elbowed, swatted, herded and, on occasion, practically Frisbeed out of the way by you inconsiderate, marauding beasts. And quite frankly, I’m getting a little tired of your sheeyat.

Sharing public transport with you is like sharing a paddling pool with an elephant. You. Just. Take. Up. SO. MUCH. ROOM! INCLUDING MINE!!! I ask for so little, yet you seem to feel my diminutive stature negates the need for personal space. Why am I seemingly expected to make myself even smaller, while you are allowed to just spread your big selves as far and wide as possible?

Just because I don’t take up 50% of the two-seater on the bus, doesn’t give you the right to take up 90%, and wedge me against the window. And whilst I’m on the subject, gentlemen: your balls are not 8ft wide. No-one’s little swimmers need that much breathing space – crank those legs back in!

Your rapid and unadulterated growth also seems to have had an adverse effect on your spatial awareness: you have none. Like… ZEEEERRRROOOOO. The number of times I’ve been slapped in the specs as one of you behemoths has reached for the overhead handrail – only to be cracked in the cranium when you decide to let go of said overhead handrail… I’ve literally lost count. Presumably due to concussion.

Perhaps you’re unaware of the handy little mechanism located between your chin and shoulders that actually allows you to swivel your head? It’s called a neck ­– it would be great if you could use yours every now and then to look around you and observe the things that might lie just outside your peripheral vision. Things like my lips. Please – just do some basic guesstimating before you fling your flat hand out there like a tennis racket (don’t be surprised if it comes back to you with a few broken strings next time).

I know what you’re thinking, big people. You think I’m overreacting. You’re thinking: ‘Well I don’t particularly enjoy my commute to work in the mornings, either – nobody does. We’re all suffering, dear’. Oh? Oh are we really? Do you know what it’s like to have your face stuffed in a moist, odious armpit from Stockwell to Oxford Circus? Had your beautiful bouffant bludgeoned by a backpack? Or perhaps you’ve experienced the crushing realisation that the passenger behind you is slowly but surely beginning to use your head as a newspaper rest? No? Didn’t think so.

Yours sincerely,
The Tellergram x

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