Whilst slowly walking up the Strand towards Covent Garden, he busied his mind with reconstructing their first encounter.

It was, indeed, Nick’s birthday party. What Robin didn't tell his mother is that, apart from the sake, there was a waterfall of other spirits, wines, and beers – including the ever-so-fashionable Japanese-made Asahi and Kirin – and that somewhere around midnight, he found himself rather wasted and passionately hugging a girl in addition. They were in the lounge, with twelve or fifteen others, all sitting on a huge, visibly endless, acid-coloured sofa circa 1972. Robin’s subconscious kept ringing an alarm bell – something’s not right, something’s crazy, something’s wrong – yet his intoxicated mind couldn’t be bothered to the point of getting the signal, let alone analyzing it.

The girl's mobile rang; she didn’t turn her head or cease the kiss, just scrabbled inside her bag and pulled the phone out of it. As a journalist, Robin was informed of more or less everything, including the fact that mobiles tended to get smaller day by day, but this one looked particularly tiny. Its unusual size puzzled him, but only for a fraction of a second – and then dissolved in a luxurious cocktail of alcohol and lust. The girl was a great kisser – and, in addition, she had long blonde hair, big blue eyes, a thin waist, and fairly large breasts – just the type he'd always liked. Her features reminded him of Margie. For one fleeting moment, the bitterness returned – it had never left him for good in the first place – yet this time, it was more sweet than sour.

He excused himself and went upstairs: the toilet on the ground floor was engaged. He met her again on his way back, as he was climbing down the stairs to the lounge. She was standing there with a glass of orange (screwdriver?). Gosh, she's pretty, he thought and silently rebuked himself for not remembering her name. He felt grateful when she started talking to him first.

He was amazed: in addition to her striking appearance, she turned out to be intellectual, too. He couldn't understand why he only noticed that now, as the party was already coming to an unavoidable end. But there was a black hole in his mind, with a disturbing sensation in it... But, again, he was too weak to get down to its roots.

It was only several minutes later that he lowered his eyes. Immediately, his jaw hit the floor the girl was standing on. The girl was standing on the floor, and he was not – that’s the point!
Robin rewound his memories back by five or ten minutes. He is coming... yes, he is coming down the stairs... from the first floor... he is seeing her standing in his way... she is intercepting him in the middle...
There: in the middle! Only now did he realize that he hadn’t finished his way down the stairs. He was still standing where she stopped him, several steps away from the floor. Away – which also means above.
The thing that had bugged him became clearer. Her size. Her vertical size.

She bent down to kiss him when they both were seated on the sofa. It was the palm of her hand that made the phone look ridiculously small. It was her height that made him nervous as they were chatting at this very moment. He was looking up at her face, even though he was standing several steps above the bloody floor!
He didn’t know how many steps separated them – he couldn't afford to be inattentive to her words, even for a few seconds that counting the steps would take.

How tall is she?

She must be wearing heels, was his saving thought. He did not dare to look directly at her feet, but it was unlikely that she came to the party on a pair of circus stilts, wasn't it?

How tall is she, for God’s sake?

He couldn't estimate. His only idea was that he'd never met anyone even close to her height. This, however, didn't help. And he just stood there, listening to her, and not hearing. The girl paused. A second ago, she put a verbal question mark – he could judge from the intonation of her voice but would not be capable of recalling the question, even if the destiny of the whole world depended on it.

“I’m sorry?” Robin decided to finally admit his faux pas.

“You weren't listening, were you?” the girl giggled. “Where have you been for the last few minutes, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Um... erm... just how tall are you?”

Robin felt humiliated. Never before had he asked a girl such a direct, sully question. Even his wife. Oh, ex-wife, he corrected himself. Margaret was – well, still is, isn’t she? – some four inches taller than he was, around five-ten, five-eleven. Margie didn’t like to discuss the subject: she considered herself too tall – for him especially – and had been reluctant to emphasize their difference in height in any way.

“Taller than you,” the girl laughed again. “Much taller, I guess.”

“I can see that. The question is exactly how much. You seem to be taller than me, even though you're standing one or two steps lower!”

He couldn't believe his own words. An average step is somewhat eight inches high. If he's right, then 2x8=16. My brain's gonna explode... no, I'll manage... so the difference between us is... sixteen inches. Plus, her eye level is still a couple of inches higher than mine. That means she's around six feet eleven or twelve inches tall... Six-twelve, huh? Well, it actually constitutes seven feet. Seven feet? No way! A foot-high heels, maybe? Do they even make heels that high?

His calculations were abruptly interrupted.

“Well,” the girl smiled. “In fact, you're three steps higher.”

That was too much. Robin gave up and decided to just finish his way down – all the way to the floor.
No rush.

On each step, he would pause and look up at her face. More and more up. And with every step, her face, with those laughing blue eyes, rose higher and higher. It wasn't something he'd experienced before. It wasn’t something he’d expected to experience, ever. And with every step, his head cleared more and more. The situation, however, grew more and more complicated.

Can this be true? No, of course not. There are no women in this world—let alone young and beautiful women right in this room—as unimaginably tall as this slender blond tower in front of him. She must be no shorter than Big Ben—and yet, against all odds, here she is.

Three steps. Three brand-new, utterly incredible dimensions added to his experience. Three new levels of himself next to her.

While they were chattering, he was staring directly at her chin.

Step one. His eyes are level with the girl's chest. He can now see her well-formed breasts without lowering his head, therefore without hesitation. Her bright yellow blouse is tightly stretched, and he could swear these twins make a deep valley between them, only the fabric hides it from his view.

Step two. Her bosom is now higher than his eyes. I wish Margie were here—to see what the expression tall woman really means. She most probably wouldn’t be able to suck this girl's nipples even on her tiptoes. The idea makes Robin excited; he's starting to imagine his wife... his ex-wife... next to this incredible female, and what these two beauties could do to each other... how they could play... He almost faints. His body moves forward, his hand grabs the rail—and makes

Step three.

If he were sober, he'd probably call his newspaper at that very moment and tell the duty editor to save two hundred lines and space for a large photograph on the first page of tomorrow’s edition. Then, he would arrange a photo shoot and an interview with—no doubt about it!—the tallest woman on Earth. He would, of course, publish it under his pen name: he's a respected current affairs reporter, not a tabloid shark... But who knows, he might even consider putting his real name on the interview, which would definitely attract tons of attention from his colleagues and the general public alike. It would be a world exclusive, wouldn’t it? So he might become a real star, not one of the countless well-respected current affairs reporters...

But he wasn't sober, and all those thoughts came and went in the blink of an eye, which was now—after the third step—at the impossible level of the girl's... hips. Hips? Yes—he turned his head left and right—no mistake, hips. Hips, for Christ’s sake!

He looked down. No spikes. No high heels. Just casual shoes with an inch-thick sole. How damn tall is this girl?

His eyes climbed up. A fraction of a second—just enough to have a good look at two legs, each as long as his mother’s whole body, if not longer. Legs whose upper halves are hidden under that navy midi-skirt, with a belt floating as high as the top of his head. The top of his head! No way... just too much rum, and sake, and who knows what else...

He is dying to ask her the question, but to do that, he needs to look her in the eye—and so his gaze continues to move further upward.

Waist now. Not visible under the flowing blouse, but surely thin—very thin for such an immense frame. And higher than his five-feet-six-plus-the-tropical-boots self. My, oh my!

Up, up, where are her eyes? Oh, they’re still a long journey away.

Chest. Well, this chest would certainly be able to comfort a BBW pervert...

The question, I must ask her the question... Which one? Name? Height? No, those can wait.

Is she real?

That's it. Or am I dreaming? But why does my dream take the form of an impossibly tall female? Yes, my wife is... was... whatever—she's fairly tall, and I love... loved... her, but I have never ever contemplated dreaming about a girl the height of Big Ben!

Where are her bloody eyes? An unexpected obstacle: boobs. They obstructed his view, and his arm even moved up instinctively to get rid of the unwanted—or wanted?—later, later, now I’ve got to ask her... Plus, he realizes, the breasts are probably too high for him to touch anyway, even if he tried.

Now what?

She helps him: leans forward, allowing him to see her face—with a grin on it.

“Got lost? No worries, it's okay for a diminutive guy like you!”

“I’m not diminutive! I’m five feet seven—average for a man, so don’t try to insult me! It’s you who’s abnormal here!”

He instantly feels something isn’t right in the way he put it. He fears that he's going to lose the girl right here, right now—and his exclusive interview and his prosperous future as a tabloid superstar are going down the toilet at this very moment.

“Look, erm... I’m sorry... I truly am, I mean it... I beg for your apology. I’m just a little drunk and confused with your... um... um... appearance... Please, please forgive me my inadvertent rudeness.”

His speech is so passionate, she can’t just go away now. What’s her name, what’s her name? Apologies don’t sound too sincere without it...

He tilts his neck even more as she straightens up after his defiant words—and finally, he sees her eyes—and a grin, even if forced, on her lips—way, way up above him. Like the Cheshire Cat on the tree.

She gives up. Lowers herself onto a footstep, holding her glass with both hands.

“I’ve heard a lot about my... abnormality. That hurts, you know. But your apology sounds sincere. Please don’t do it again. Ever.”

He feels it's inappropriate to ask her height again—at least not right now. But the main question sounds less intrusive—and it is more important for him. He sits down beside her. A step higher, in fact.

“Are you for real?”

She turns to him and shrugs her shoulders.

“What do you think?”
If only he knew.

“I’m not sure. I can touch you, I hugged and kissed you half an hour ago or so, I can see your face, your legs, your...” His eyes stop at her breasts. “...your whole body. But you are the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. It’s strange. You’re so beautiful and so tall, and I can’t say I’m attracted to taller women, maybe...”

He cannot finish. She seals his mouth with her lips.

She is a great kisser. And this time, Robin enjoys the sensation even more: the mysterious bug at the back of his mind is no more.

this be true? No, of course not. There are no women in this world – let alone young and beautiful women right in this room – as unimaginably tall as this slender blond tower in front of him. She must be not shorter than Big Ben – and yet, against all odds, here she is.

Three steps. Three brand new, utterly incredible dimensions added to his experience. Three new levels of himself next to her.

While they were chattering, he was staring directly at her chin.

Step one. His eyes are levelled with the girl's chest. He can now see her well-formed breasts without lowering his head, therefore without hesitation. Her bright yellow blouse is tightly stretched, and he can swear these twins make a deep valley between them, only the fabric hides it away from his view.

Step two. Her bosom's now higher than his eyes. I wish Margie were here – to see what the expression tall woman really means. She most probably wouldn’t be able to suck this girl's nipples even on her tiptoes. The idea makes Robin excited; he's starting to imagining his wife... his ex-wife... next to this incredible female, and what these two beauties could do to each other... how they could play... he almost faints. His body moves forwards, his hand grabs the rail – and makes

Step three.

Should he be sober, he'd probably call his newspaper at that very moment, and tell the duty editor to save two hundred lines and a space for a large photograph on the first page of tomorrow’s edition. Then, he would arrange a photo shoot and an interview with – no doubt about it! – the tallest woman on Earth. He would, of course, publish it under his penname: he's a respected current affairs reporter, not a tabloid shark... But who knows, he would probably even consider putting his real name on the interview, which would definitely attract tons of attention from his colleagues and general public alike. It would be a world exclusive, wouldn’t it? So he might become a real star, not one of the countless well-respected current affairs reporters...

But he wasn't sober, and all those thoughts came and went in a blink of an eye, which was now – after the third step – at the impossible level of the girl's... hips… Hips? Yes – he turned his head left and right – no mistake, hips. Hips, for Christ’s sake!

He looked down. No spikes. No high heels. Just casual shoes on an inch-thick sole. How damn tall is this girl?

His eyes climb up. A fraction of a second – just enough to have a good look on two legs, each as long as his mother’s whole body, if not longer. Legs which upper halves are hidden under that navy midi-skirt, with a belt floating as high as the top of his head. The top of his head! No way... just too much rum, and sake, and who knows what else...

He is dying to ask her the question, but to do that, he needs to look her in the eye – and so his look continues to move further upwards.

Waist now. Not seen under the flowing blouse, but surely thin, very thin for such an immense frame. And higher than his five-feet-six-plus-the-tropical-boots self. My, oh my!

Up, up, where are her eyes? Oh, they’re still a long journey away.

Chest. Well, this chest would certainly be able to comfort a BBW pervert...

The question, I must ask her the question... which one? ...name? ...height? – No, those can wait.

Is she real?

That's it. Or am I dreaming? But why does my dream take a form of an impossibly tall female? Yes, my wife is... was... whatever – she's fairly tall, and I love... loved... her, but I have never ever contemplated of dreaming about a girl the height of Big Ben!

Where are her bloody eyes? An unexpected obstacle: boobs. They obstructed his view, and his arm even moved up instinctively to get rid of unwanted – or wanted? – later, later, now I got to ask her... Plus, he realises, the breasts are probably too high for him to touch anyway, even if he tried.

Now what?

She helps him: leans forward, allowing him to see her face. With a grin on it.

“Got lost? No worries, it's okay for a diminutive guy like you!”

“I'm not diminutive! I'm five feet seven – average for a man, so don't try to insult me! It's you who's abnormal here!”

He instantly feels something isn’t right in the way he put it. Fears that he's going to lose the girl right there right now – and his exclusive interview, and his prosperous future as a tabloid superstar are going down the toilet at this very moment.

“Look, erm... I'm sorry... I truly am, I mean it... I beg for your apology. I'm just a little drunk and confused with your... um... um... appearance... please, please forgive me my inadvertent rudeness.”

His speech is so passionate, she can't just go away now. What’s her name, what’s her name? – apologies don’t sound too sincere without it...

He tilts his neck even more, as she straightens up after his defiant words – and finally, he sees her eyes – and a grin, even if forced, on her lips – way, way up above him. Like the Cheshire Cat on the tree.

She gives up. Lowers herself on a footstep, holds her glass with both hands.

“I've heard a lot about my... abnormality. That hurts, you know. But your apology sounds sincere. Please don't do it again. Ever.”

He feels it's inappropriate to ask her height again – at least not right now. But the main question sounds less intrusive – and it is more important for him. He sits down beside her. A step higher, in fact.

“Are you for real?”

She turns to him and shrugs her shoulders.

“What do think?”

If only he knew.

“I'm not sure. I can touch you, I hugged and kissed you half-hour ago or so, I can see your face, your legs, your...” his eyes stopped at her breasts. “...your whole body. But you are the most incredible thing ever happened to me. It's strange, you're so beautiful, and so tall, and I can’t say I’m attracted to taller women, maybe...”

He cannot finish. She seals his mouth with her lips.

She is a great kisser. And this time, Robin enjoys the sensation even more: the mysterious bug at the back of his mind is no more.