ONE of my favourite lines from Caroline Ahearn's Mrs Merton Show came when the elderly, blue-rinsed Mancunian interviewed "the lovely" Debbie McGee.

"So," she said with a wicked glint in her eye behind her dodgy National Health specs, "what was it that first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?"

This classic cutting line came to mind last week after I read that a new study by Dr Daniel Nettle of the Open University found that short men (those under the 5ft 8ins average) were less likely to marry and have kids than their 6ft-plus rivals.

Within hours of the report appearing in all the national newspapers, short men were running as fast as their little legs would carry them to their nearest tabloid to protest in no uncertain terms that, contrary to Dr Nettle's tall tales, they were not short of attention from the ladies. Size, they said, doesn't matter. Showing clearly that they were short on imagination and originality as well as inches.

My favourite piece of "Look at me! Here I am! Down here!" writing was by the former jockey Walter Swinburn, who managed to fill an entire page of the Daily Mail with lame witterings about how his leggy wife-to-be liked his vertically challenged stature because she could borrow his petite trainers and sweaters, she didn't have to readjust the driving seat in the car and she could kiss him without standing on a box.

All of which, I'm sure you will agree, are absolutely vital ingredients to a long and happy marriage.

Unfortunately, however, wee Walter then tried to back up his arguments by citing a number of other shorties who were a hit with the ladies. These pocket-sized Romeos included raddled old rocker Rod Stewart, Formula 1 boss Bernie Ecclestone, champion American jockey Willie Shoemaker and the late (though never late for a chequered flag) racing driver Ayrton Senna.

Walter argued quite forcefully that these men were a bit on the short side but they were always a big hit with the ladies. Proof, he yodelled manfully from the tea cup in which he was swimming lengths, that short men were more sexy than their lanky counterparts.

But wait a minute Wally, don't these sex thimbles also have one other thing in common apart from their size? When women look at them do they perhaps not see petite people, but pound signs instead?

Which brings us back to Mrs Merton and that cutting question.

"So," she would ask the pneumatic collection of leggy, blonde Bond girl-types sitting pert and alert on her sofa, "what was it that first attracted you to the millionaire Rod Stewart/Bernie Ecclestone/Willie Shoemaker/Ayrton Senna (delete as applicable)?"

Call me a cynic, but isn't it more likely to be their enormous bank balance rather than their tiny tootsies?

AS I write this I am sitting in the reception of a garage in Leeds waiting for my car to pass its MOT with flying colours.

From that one sentence it is probably obvious to you now that a) my life is perhaps not as full as it might be, and b) I am optimistic to the point of insanity if I think my car is going anywhere near a garage without costing me an arm, a leg and any number of other vital body parts.

What is probably less obvious is the degenerative forgetfulness that led to me sitting here in the first place. Since having the Munchkin my mind is like a sieve - a sieve that has been attacked by giant metal-eating moths.

I can't remember anything. If I don't write myself a note (preferably on my hand so I don't forget where I've put it) I forget everything - from birthdays to the name of that nice man on the telly, you know the one with the hair and the teeth on Corrie, or is it Brookie? - within seconds.

In this case I forgot to renew my car tax. After coming across the reminder in a pile of old magazines, I dug out my vehicle documents, only to find I had forgotten to book my car in for its MOT. When I phoned the garage I couldn't remember the car registration number and my own telephone number escaped me for a moment.

I suppose it's lucky that I'm sitting here at all. The reminder note in foot-high red letters on the kitchen noticeboard must have done the trick I suppose.

But perhaps tattooing "MOT" across the knuckles of my left hand was taking things a bit too far.

Updated: 09:01 Tuesday, August 20, 2002