AS a right-thinking, right-on, left-leaning woolly liberal - which is what I like to think I am, despite reams of evidence to the contrary - I am obviously an incredibly tolerant person.

I welcome people of all nations, especially that nice Polish shopkeeper on Walmgate with all his imported beer, and believe people have a right to air their views - even David Cameron and Davina McCall - no matter how stupid they are.

But I'm afraid I do have one teeny, tiny prejudice. It's not something I'm proud of, but I feel I'm among friends here and able to share my innermost demons without fear of retribution.

Much as it pains me, I have to admit I would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to have a meaningful relationship with a man shorter than me (not that anyone is offering). I realise this makes me a shallow, heightist, female chauvinist pig, but at least I'm an honest old snorter.

When I see photographs of Sophie Dahl - six-foot in her Versace, diamond-encrusted, cotton socks - with her latest beau, the diminutive ivory-tickler Jamie Cullum, who, at 5ft 4in, needs a booster seat to reach the keys of his piano, I can't help but stare in wonder.

She is a striking woman and, bar a slightly duff haircut, he is not a bad looking little fella, but that is not what draws my gaze. All I can see is the physical oddity of them as a couple, and all I can think is that she must be a much bigger woman than me in more than just inches.

This isn't to imply that I think small men are some sort of dating charity case, who only saintly women are big enough to tackle. It's just a graphic reminder of my own shortcomings (it's difficult to avoid the puns once you start).

I have only once been out with a chap who was shorter than me. I reckon he was about 5ft 3in to my 5ft 8in. He was very good looking, all blonde hair, blue eyes and bulging biceps, he was attentive and fun and, as if he hadn't ticked enough boxes already, he was younger too. But I just couldn't get past the height difference.

It probably didn't help that my previous boyfriend had been 6ft 3in and the one before that 6ft 5in (his nickname was Moose, but maybe, to quote TV's Kath & Kim, that was more to do with him being a complete hornbag).

If my gorgeous, funny, good natured, 5ft 3in fella had been a few inches taller, I'm sure our relationship would have lasted longer. Not forever - his mother was a neurotic nightmare - but a while.

I think it's safe to say that little episode sums up the murky depths of my own shallowness quite nicely. But I'm pretty sure I'm not the only woman not big enough to handle a short man. Why a great many of us still feel the need to be physically overshadowed by men is a tricky one, especially as we (or most of us, at least) live in a modern world where equality between the sexes is such a driving force.

I imagine it is partly a genetic throwback to times when women needed to hook up with ginormous hunter-gatherer types so they didn't fall foul of passing sabre-tooth tigers.

But I think today it is more to do with not wanting to stand out from the crowd which, as a 6ft woman, Sophie Dahl most certainly does, and wanting to retain, and indeed relish, our femininity. We don't want to be overshadowed by men in the workplace or at home, but sometimes it is nice to feel like "the little woman".

Tall men make us feel relatively dainty, while small men make us feel like heffalumps. I know that going out with my dinky toy boy made me feel like a rugby prop-forward in drag, which is hardly what a woman wants from a relationship, is it?

I know some of you might be thinking that I would soon change my tune on this whole heightist thing if I found out that George Clooney was only 5ft 2in on his tippy-toes. But I honestly don't think even he could help me overcome my prejudice. 'd let him have a damn good go though, especially if he brought Brad Pitt along to give him a leg-up.

I might be heightist, but I'm not completely insane.