GOOD things, apparently, come in small packages. Although I stand barely five feet tall in my stockinged soles, I just don’t have the expendable income to buy into such self-aggrandising nonsense. Good things, I reckon, come in all packages.

Don’t worry, I haven’t lost that hard edge you’ve come to know and loathe. My innards are positively squidgy but on top sits that cloak of realism that even deep dry-cleaning won’t soften. I’m well aware that while goodness can and does take any form, so too does its antithesis, but I’m afraid I’m just not willing to allow that publicity-hungry hag more column inches than she already devours. I guess, underneath it all, I’m just a hands-up, card-carrying optimist, with the unresolved trust issues to prove it.

Optimists see good, they make good, and, well, they know good, and Ariel Killick is one of those people in life that you instantly feel that you know. But you don’t. Well, unless you know Ariel Killick, of course. And you might, in fact, know Ariel in one of many guises: snow fairy, fire nymph, or even under her teacher-of-Gaelic name, em, Miss Killick. For Ariel is a chameleon. While her tail is not prehensile and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t chow down on crickets (although we never did share a dinner table), the symbolism still holds. Hailing originally from Australia, Ariel is an award-winning performance artist, script-writer and multilingual actor, bringing characters to life and life to characters through stilt-walking, storytelling and a quirky injection of Irish and Scots Gaelic to boot.

The difficulty with describing this particular chameleon, though, is that the background just keeps changing. From minute to minute, it’s difficult to surmise what workshop or exhibition Ariel is adding her very own brand of sparkle to but you can be certain of one thing – like a rogue dusting of birthday card glitter, that sparkle stays with you. Whether teaching young people to be suddenly tall or strutting her way through a street festival or directing the world’s first pop-up Gaelic café, Ariel’s enthusiasm is so infectious it requires a hazmat. And I reckon that stems from her desire to spread a joy that, at times, she admits not having felt herself.

Moving to Scotland to trace her ancestral roots in Mull from the time of the Highland Clearances, Ariel embarked on a journey that would guide her along both the high and low roads, through an array of performances, studies in Ireland and New York, and eventually a difficult period of isolation, thousands of miles from the bulk of her support system. For most folk, that would be tough. For Ariel, it was an opportunity to set up Independent State of Happiness: an umbrella for her disparate work-streams, for her no-regrets philosophy, and for a rainy day. It’s testament to her character that, even after all that, she still had the energy to school this fool in the ways of stilt-walking.

I met Ariel in her shared courtyard in Maryhill on a grey morning about to be made rainbow bright. We perched on the footplate of her red van, Postman Pat-style, as we chatted, the collection of circus equipment and assorted jumble piled around adding to the mail-van vibe. I won’t pretend I wasn’t a bit nervous: I’m not much of an actor, even on paper. But it wasn’t the thought of towering above the land that normally holds me so close causing me such anxiety, nor worry over re-embracing it at speed. I was worried instead about disappointing the female Daedelus who was giving her limited free time to coach me. It’s a concern that crosses my mind like a priest with a tic. I’m now more than used to being the novice in any given situation.

My stilt-walking lesson began with not only both feet being grounded, but my head too. My teacher’s background in community arts and education has clearly equipped her with an acute awareness of the mental barriers her students face. Using affirmations and positive reinforcements, she demonstrated how to cleanse my mind of the rot I wheel out before any new adventure; you know, my usual provisos about being clumsy and impractical and, well, just a bit rubbish. Freed from its restraints, I felt fortified but also completely exposed. Without my pre-emptive justifications, without my crutches, I suppose, on what sturdy surface would I balance the weight of my potential failure?

Then Ariel handed me the stilts. Two simple wooden pegs, with ledges for bold feet, and a roll of duct tape for attaching these new extensions to willing legs. Essentially, it’s a basic first murderer’s kit – battery not included.

After detailed instruction on – and undignified practice of – how not to break myself in the event of a fall from grace, I donned trousers that only the biggest and friendliest giant could pull off, and watched while Ariel joined stilt to leg with all the skill of a tree surgeon – and all the silver tape of a botched kidnapping. Then it was my turn. Believe me, it’s not easy to stick a pole to your own limb, and the result was a little less meticulous than Ariel’s example, but as I shuffled my way to the seat’s edge and the inevitable verticality beyond, the last thing on my mind was shin aesthetics.

With Ariel’s tuition still ringing in my slowly ascending ears, I rose to full height, now almost two feet above my usual paltry allowance. This particular type of stilt, I was told, didn’t allow for exhaustion, since it wasn’t possible to stop moving once atop their summit, so, hands gripping Ariel’s shoulders, I marched from foot to foot, trying to put into action everything I’d been taught. Feeling the stilts supporting my weight, looking forward with my head up, scanning the environment for possible obstacles, I moved tentatively along the path. I say tentative: it was more uncontrolled hurry, and I’ll be hearing Ariel’s lilting slow-down command in my mind’s ear for decades to come.

As we toddled up and down the yard, my movements becoming more fluid, my wobbles less frequent, I practised waving to our imaginary audience, smiling and clapping as the notion took me. And the notion really did take me because, without even realising, distracted by Ariel’s constant direction and guidance, I was on my own. Barely minutes after taking to the stilts, I had been taught how to walk, turn, and bow unsupported, and while the rest was all about the performance, the joy I felt was real.

There’s a lovely metaphor in the Alice adventure of gazing down on a world that once terrified you; moving over its mountains, seeing them for the molehills they really are. But metaphors don’t pay the bills, people, so here’s the reality: stilt-walking is a hell of a lot of fun.

I left that yard walking taller than I had in a long time; buoyed by the realisation that my inadequacies need no verbal disclaimers – those bad boys speak for themselves. Seriously though, it’s incredible the difference that an inspiring teacher and giantess makes. And, as good things go, that’s as big a package as they come.