Those of you living in the UK long enough may remember a brief yet passionate affair between the then England football squat manager Sven Goran Ericsson and a TV celebrity Ulrika Jonsson. It happened years ago, shortly before a World Cup, and caused a nationwide tabloid outcry.

I personally liked the way Sven run the team, and didn't understand why people should focus on his private life rather than his sport achievements. So I don’t really know why – perhaps as a result of some masochistic thoughts – I decided to gather as many material on the topic as possible, and started archiving paper articles, recording TV and even radio pieces covering the matter. Soon, it became my newly found routine.

One day, having just returned from work, I turned on the VCR, to watch the cassette that had been pre-programmed to record few daytime TV shows. I was sure The Affair would have made it to the headlines – and this assumption proved to be correct. Two hosts – let’s call them Mike and Sue – took hold of the issue at the very beginning. Since both Mr Eriksson and Ms Jonsson were from Sweden, they speculated on things the two could allegedly have in common, like speaking to each other on their mother tongue; visiting Swedish baths together; and even probably forming a Swedish family (the term I had to google back then) along with their previous partners. To me, this sounded unbearably vulgar, so I was just about to fast-forward the tape, when Sue said:

“But things could become even more bizarre should Sven fall in love with another compatriot of his.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mike, as if genuinely puzzled.

“Who, not what,” she responded, with an enigmatic grin. “I mean another pretty blonde from Sweden, a star even higher – or should I say taller? – than the lovely Ulrika. Here she is, right in our studio this afternoon. Please meet Ms Breta Sorenssen, the tallest fashion model in the UK, in Europe and, arguably, in the whole world.”

I changed my mind at once as camera changed the angle and showed the guest chair. A woman in her mid-twenties smiled at me from the screen.

Not that I have been in love with tall women for my whole life – no, quite the opposite, in fact. When I was younger, I found their lanky frames intriguing, but not attractive, and only few years prior to that evening I wouldn’t have even started to imagine dating a girl taller than me. This, to me, would’ve been inappropriate and even ridiculous.

My attitude changed literally overnight. All it took is a party hosted by a seven-foot-tall girl called Katie, where I met her friend Natalie, who was even taller – and even nicer [these events were described in a story called The Night of Surprises]. She was amazing in every aspect, and I was really close to falling in love, but two weeks later she left London for her hometown, and our relationship abruptly stopped. Her mobile went dead, and I didn’t have her home address, and Katie wouldn’t tell me, no matter how hard I pressed, and asked, and begged...

I still don’t have a slightest idea of what’d happened then, but I’ve never seen Natalie ever since, nor have I heard from or of her. The only thing that I still keep as a present from that wonderful girl is my newly developed passion. Now I truly am what they call a Tall Women Admirer.

So much so that the name – Breta Sorenssen – did ring a bell for me. A couple of years before, I’d seen a scanned newspaper page somewhere on the internet, mentioning the tallest teenager in the world. The article claimed, she was around eight feet in height, still growing, playing basketball, and considering switching for the fashion industry. This, however, was so long ago, and nothing on her has popped up anywhere ever since – so eventually I came to a conclusion that the piece was a fake, and, slowly but surely, forgot about her.

And there she was, alive and stunning. I couldn't estimate her height, as she sat three or four yards from the hosts' couch, and the camera didn't show her figure in full. But the face was young, and fresh, and sweet indeed.

“Hi, Ms Sorenssen, nice to meet you,” said Mike. “You know, my dear audience, if I were Sven, I would definitely stick with our guest rather than with Ms Jonsson. Nothing impersonal, Ulrika,” he added as he stared directly to the camera, “I just prefer them younger.”

And he turned back to Breta.

“Well, it's trivial that fashion models are very tall. So how tall should you be to be named the tallest of them all?”

“Well, my height is two metres and forty-two centimetres,” she had a charming accent and a great smile.

“Sorry, darling, despite all the EU rulings, I still struggle when dealing with the Metric system,” Mike didn't look impressed. “Sue, you always get loads of lousy stuff in your bag...”

“Like every woman,” snapped Sue.

“Probably, but this is immaterial right now... What I’m leading to is, do you happen to have a calculator in there?”

“What would you do without me,” was the answer – and a tiny machine was produced from thin air. “But even without the calculator I know that one centimetre equals two-point-fifty-four inches. Which means that in Imperial terms, Breta, you are as tall as..." Sue's fingers floated over the keyboard, “...as tall as... six hundred fourteen and a half inches…”

“Now, now… You mean that The Attack of the 50-foot woman was not a fantasy?” questioned Mike without a smile. “Looks like the Hollywood have even reduced you actual height!”

It was Breta’s turn to look puzzled. Sue in the meantime nudged the tiny headphone deeper into her ear, and a second later declared:

“It's all wrong, ladies and gentlemen! Our director just told me that one inch equals two-point-fifty-four centimetres, not the other way around!”

And then she grabbed the calculator again.

“Relax, Breta, your height is only seven feet eleven point two hundred seventy six inches. And this time it’s final!”

“Sue, honey, can we please cut the point-something crap, and round up to simple numbers?' pleaded Mike.

“Just for you, darling. It's seven feet eleven inches.”

“Seven-eleven, huh! So you've nothing to do with the vintage movie, but you obviously have been involved with the American supermarket chain!”

As both women giggled to his joke, the host demonstrated little intention to end his one-man show.

“Must admit, I met quite a few tall people here and there, but never as tall as seven-eleven. Breta, how would you respond if an old short fart like me asked you to stand up and compare heights?”

“Well, in any other circumstances,” the sophisticated English word didn't give up easily to her, but she mustered it at last, “I would consider the request inappropriate, but here... well, I knew what I was up to.”

“You see! And I don’t know what I am going to be up to... up to where, I wonder?” with those words, Mike came to Breta and extended his arm to her. For the first time the camera slipped down along her body and showed a sparkling grey dress she was wearing, ending above her knees. What a sign: these sharp knees of hers were at the level of Mike's mid-thighs!

And, despite his words, he wasn't short; in fact, he was rather tall. I remember him towering a full head over David Beckham, who isn't dwarf himself. However when Ms Sorenssen stood up, Sue clapped her hands, and said aloud and excitedly:

"Oh Mike, you were a real macho to me, and now look at you!”

She was right: he looked ridiculous. The top of his head clearly didn't get it up to his guests' armpits, and his eyes were below her breasts.

“Yeah, I can see myself in the monitor,” he mumbled. “Hate to admit, I’ve never felt this short since I was like ten years old. Congratulations, Breta,” he graciously kissed her fingers, “you’ve managed to dwarf me completely. Sue,” he turned to his colleague, “don’t you fancy standing next to the tallest woman I've ever seen?”

“Well, I'm not sure I will grow in your eyes,” was the answer, but nevertheless Sue stood up.

It was her who plays the shorty on the show. She was three or four inches shorter than even Britney Spears, so I estimated her height at around five one or two. Furthermore, as if to underline the height difference with her male co-host, she never wore heels. This time, too, she had a pair of flat leather shoes on.

The impact was overwhelming. Sue stood at Breta's side, her chin right above the Swede's crotch. The guest's belly button was covered by the dress, but I doubted the top of Sue's head would be levelled with it.

It was the first time that Sue couldn't say a word, except “Oh my!” as she looked perpendicularly upwards. Eventually, however, she gathered her professional skills – only to say something really silly:

“You are tall, aren't you? And you're in flats.”

“Actually, I'm not,” Breta lifted her foot to prove it. It seemed like Sue shrank even more: her head wasn't even at the level of Breta's raised knee! “These heels are five centimetres.”

Mike grabbed the initiative again.

“Do you ever wear high heels, by the way?”

“I don't think she needs to, really,” Sue was still in shock.

“Normally I don't, but in fashion it comes with the territory,” smiled Breta. “On the podium, I have to wear them as high as twenty centimetres.”

“That's another eight inches!” moaned Sue. “I'm embarrassed even to mention the part of your body which I would be up to then.”

“And how people react when they see you that tall?” asked Mike.

“Well, those I work with are used to it...”

“How tall is your next tallest colleague, by the way?” he elaborated.

“Male or female?”

“Either.”

“Well, our agency’s unique selling point is tall modelling – the PR sector needs them more often than one could imagine... Mengistu – he's an Ethiopian – is our tallest man. He's two meters and four centimetres. And Lisa – a Russian girl – is one meter ninety-three. She's a good friend of mine, by the way.”

“Still half a meter shorter,” Mike proved to be a fast learner. “At least I'm as tall as the second tallest female model in this country.”

“I'm not sure about the country, I only mean the agency I work for,” corrected Breta with a smile.

“Sorry guys, would you mind if we sat down? Please?” begged Sue. “There're two people here in the studio who feel uncomfortable. Myself – as I can't keep up with a conversation while craning my neck – and Rick the cameraman, who finds it impossible to keep the three of us in the frame at a time.”

Once they settled, she continued.

“But Breta, what kind of show should it be where you – on heels – are like two heads taller than everybody else! All other models will look utter midgets next to you, no matter how tall they really are. Besides, virtually nobody will be able to buy any outfit made for you afterwards, will they?”

“That's why I have a special role. You probably know that fashion shows tend to end with the demonstration of a wedding dress. They don't go for sale anyway. Generally, they are intended to show off all the designer's abilities and fantasies. And, if you think of it, all those ruches, ruffles, embroideries and ornaments require maximum fabric capacity – and this is where I'm priceless,” she smiled confusedly. “A couturier can put anything he or she likes on a dress my size.”

“Fair enough,” the topic was exhausted, and Mike decided to change it. “But you didn't mention how strangers react when they see you in a restaurant, say, or in a supermarket, or in a café...”

“Well, it varies. Some people don't bother at all, some just freeze and stare. Children usually point their fingers at us and shout, “Mommy, look!” Adults like to ask our heights and whether we play basketball. Some try to compare, or ask us to pose for a photograph with them.”

“How annoying!” claimed Sue. “You must be really tired of all that?”

“Well, I used to feel annoyed when I was a teenager. But then I’ve learnt to look at the bright side as well – and now I find it rather funny to see them come close and try to embrace us for a picture...”

“Really kind of you,” approved Mike. “But obviously there should be plenty of amusing stories related to the topic?”

“Not sure there are plenty...”

“Come on, don’t be excessively humble! Give us some treats!”

“Well, let’s see... A month or so ago we had just finished presenting a new collection, and the hosts, a well-known fashion house, set up organized a banquet. They wanted us the models to wear the same outfits that we had just demonstrated, so we didn't change, just freshened up, and went straight to the restaurant – it was next door, literally. And there was this grand dining table, like in a knight castle, you know. My friend Lisa and I sat in the dark corner, and had some cocktails... And then... then a gentleman came along to us – and then he asked me for a dance. He was very good looking, and he was of the Mediterranean origin, and not that tall, you know... perhaps not taller than Sue... I'm sorry, Sue,” she suddenly bethought.

“That's all right,” the hostess was all courtesy. “I know I’m not a giant – and am keen to hear the rest!”

“Well, he didn’t see us properly, because of the dimmed lights and that huge table... All he could see were our heads and shoulders... I tried to talk him out, but he insisted ever so politely...” she giggled. “No, no, I didn't agree, I just asked for a minute to prepare myself. I’ll go to the restroom, I thought, and he’ll see that I’m... well... a little taller than he’d thought. But before I had time to do that, a waiter brought us a bottle of champagne ordered by that man – and he himself followed right at that moment. He apologised for being persistent, and said he couldn’t wait any longer. Again, in a very polite manner. I asked him: “Are you sure?” and he said that he had never been more convinced in his whole life. What could I do?”

“And you were in your scenic outfit, including high-heeled shoes?” specified Sue.

“Yes, those twenty-centimetre spikes. It’s like this,” and with her long, slender fingers she showed the length of the eight-inch heels. “Well, I could hear that Lisa chuckled as I stood up, but the gentleman didn't change his mind. He said: “I didn’t know the floor in this corner is elevated that much,” and gave me his hand. But when I came out of the table, he became speechless...”

“Who wouldn’t!” said Mike. “Poor fella. Where did he come up to you, if I may?”

“Well, I doubt he could reach my belly with his arm fully extended,” smiled Breta.

“You mean...”

Mike was curious, and Breta demonstrated unexpected diplomatic skills.

“Let's put it this way: fortunately, I wasn't wearing a miniskirt, so he couldn't see what he wasn't supposed to.”

“Wow, what a punch!” Mike looked surprised. “This miniskirt thing – we'll come back to it later, if you don't mind. But now, how did you manage to dance with a man less than half your height?”

“I didn't. He was smart enough to say it would be difficult to keep a conversation during the dance, and just asked me to pose for a picture with him instead.”

“What a relief!” said Sue.

“Yes, it was,” laughed Breta, “A friend of his took the camera, and he stood by my side...”

“By your leg,” defined Mike.

“By my leg... So, that was it, actually.”

“Right, right... Now, please the miniskirts thing... I just love them!” exclaimed the male host, “especially with shaped, long legs. How long are yours, by the way, if you don't mind me asking?”

“My inseam is a hundred and twenty-one centimetres.”

“That's nearly forty-eight inches, or four feet, in case you care,” Sue was now pretty quick with her calculations. “Sure you do,” she added as she saw Mike's amazed look.

“Why haven’t you applied for the world record then?” he asked. “With four-foot inseam, plus heels, you certainly wouldn't be challenged!”

“I don't think it would be fair,” was the answer. “It's not my personal achievement, there's nothing to be proud of.”

“Apart from your beauty, you are also a very decent person, Breta,” said Sue.

“Thank you.”

“But I am not,” declared Mike, “so once again I would like to raise that miniskirts thing. Do you wear them? Do you wear them along with heels?”

“Out of podium? No.”

“Beware of a heel being stuck between the pavement tiles?” Sue demonstrated that she was familiar with the topic, in spite of never wearing high heels on the TV.

“Beware of somebody being stuck between my legs.”

“What!” hosts gasped at once.

“Well, I mean... All right, if you want to know everything... The other day a shoe designer presented me with the mules... also twenty centimetres high. And Lisa – she's always into fun... she liked how I looked wearing a miniskirt during the show, and bought me one, matching the shoes in colour. She found it in a big girl shop, so it fit my hips, but was still much too short – only forty centimetres or so in length. I said, no way I would wear this outside, and she just asked me to try it indoors.”

“With the heels?”

“Yes. And she wore her shortest skirt and highest heels, too... We just fooled around and had a couple of drinks... And then Lisa suggested continuing in a bar nearby... I can only blame alcohol...”

“So you agreed?”

“Well... yes.”

“Oh, I can imagine how stunned passers-by were!” Mike got very excited. “A girl in a mini with legs going all the way up to fifty-six inches!”

“They were. But the funniest thing happened when we were already at the doorstep, leaving the bar. A rather short young man – I mean, really short – he walked up to us, and started to say something about his attraction to taller women, and that his girlfriend in Brazil or wherever was very tall, and played basketball, but he never saw a girl this tall... Lisa asked him what he wanted, and he said something really odd – to have a picture with him standing under my legs...”

“No!” Sue forgot to close her mouth.

“I know... We were having fun, and those cocktails inside... and he was very convincing, you know, and no adult person had ever asked me to do that before... I only took his promise not to look up.”

“Unbelievable!” gasped Mike. “And?”

“And,” Breta giggled, “he fit well...”

“Mike, are you still with us?” asked Sue.

Indeed, her colleague seemed to be daydreaming.

“So, Breta,” she turned to the guest, “you have some unparalleled experience in dealing with shorter men. But how tall is your boyfriend, if you have one?”

“I don't at the moment.”

“What about your exes then?”

“Well, the latest one was up here,” and her hand draw a line at the level of her breasts.

“Am I wrong suggesting that your height has been at least one of the reasons for your to have separated?” Mike, admittedly, has lost his decency completely.

“One of the reasons, yes.”

“Oh, poor Breta!” Sue became sympathetic. “Of course, it's hard for you to find a perfect match! But I promise to look for a very, very, very tall guy, and if I found one, I'll invite him to be our guest here. And you must promise to watch our shows in order not to miss him. Deal?”

“Deal.”

That was the last word Miss Sorenssen said in the studio. But they didn't finish with the topic yet. A new picture appeared on screen: Breta in a lavish wedding dress with a “groom” by her side. His head wasn't even up to her armpit, yet the presenter announced that the male model stood six feet and six inches tall. Unfortunately, her dress was too long to judge whether she was wearing high heels or not. Fortunately, the ticker on screen read: courtesy of Mayfair Agency, London.

I opened the yellow pages – and fifteen minutes later I knew that the next show that Ms Sorenssen would participate in was going to be in a week time at Ritz. Okay, I thought, it's about time I bought a bow tie. A couple of months earlier I was best man on my friend's wedding, and a smart suit purchased for the occasion was patiently waiting to be worn for the second time.