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Shutterstock/Larisa Rudenko
Opinion

A take the size of Wales: why we should stop getting hung up on details

Michael Restin
18/3/2026
Translation: Katherine Martin

This article’s the same length as a pop song. Instead of obsessing over exact details, it’s a tribute to the world of smidgens, handfuls and football pitches – the rough comparisons that give us a sense of freedom.

I love making comparisons. Don’t we all? Once we realise roughly what we want, we suddenly go looking for exactness, delving into the tiniest details. We pour over monitor pixel densities. We weigh up one T-shirt’s recycled cotton percentage against another. We study everything there is to know about OLED, QNED and WLTP. With the now infinitely large range of products, news, and opinions available to us, our obsession with detail gives us back a sense of control.

The thing is, life’s much nicer, simpler and offers a better sense of connection when we stop taking everything so seriously. That goes for both words and product specifications. A realisation that hit me again a few days ago when I set my brand new rucksack down next to a used bin bag for comparison purposes.

Meet the Sack family: Zuri (left) and Ruck (right).
Meet the Sack family: Zuri (left) and Ruck (right).

I briefly wondered if lumping those two bags together was acceptable. Was I making things too easy for myself? In the end, I was chuffed to get the response below from a reader.

Of course, the comparison in itself is great. We’re all familiar with it. Everyone can imagine what it means. On a Galaxus? A bold comparison. Super!
Community member 01010101

I also enjoyed the user’s follow-up point about the official unit of measurement used by the media being football pitches. Which is true. In a 2018 article, my colleague Luca pointed out that if a 65-inch TV were as big as a football pitch, a single pixel would be the size of a five-franc coin. It’s a prime example of how mental images are both effective and able to outsmart that impulse we have to hone in on details.

Foraying into grey areas

I get a kick out of the connections these images sometimes create. Not just in the comments, but in our minds in general. I think it’s because they give us the chance to foray into grey areas together. In doing that, we gain enough mental freedom to roughly agree on things. To reconcile our own ideas and expectations, and those of others.

This process starts off with the words we use. We’ve become accustomed to using extremely precise, but narrow measurements. Measurements that are becoming harder and harder to grasp, while promising absolute truths – microgrammes, milliwatts, nanometres. We can measure all sorts of things and draw comparisons based on the smallest details. On the one hand, this has created new opportunities. On the other, it often has little to no impact on our day-to-day lives.

Would you believe the gall of these precision scales?
Would you believe the gall of these precision scales?
Source: Screenshot galaxus.ch

Not a positive impact anyway, given that the lowest common denominator’s almost impossible to find. Instead, the tiniest differences are emphasised as if they’re revolutionary. We no longer accept the phrase «equally good». Whenever we can, we sort our world into the categories of «better» or «worse».

In 1953, the Freehold Raceway in New Jersey ended in a dead heat for the first time. Afterwards, they simply named three winners. Nowadays, I imagine we’d clearly separate first, second and third place.
In 1953, the Freehold Raceway in New Jersey ended in a dead heat for the first time. Afterwards, they simply named three winners. Nowadays, I imagine we’d clearly separate first, second and third place.
Source: Public domain

All my little sprinklings

Terms that used to be considered sufficiently precise have turned into ways of avoiding precision: a pinch, a sprinkle, a handful. Words that conjure up images and allow some room for interpretation. If we all had just a pinch more chill, we wouldn’t have as many people desperately scouring the internet for more precise information before adding salt to their food.

I’ve been losing it over my quest to find visual references for a pinch of salt.
Reddit user

With a smidge of luck, the subtle differences in the way we interpret this freedom add flavour to our day-to-day lives. A little more flexibility would save us endless arguments. Even so, we still get drawn into these arguments over the smallest things – even with ourselves. In doing so, we move away from being storytellers and start turning into bean counters.

Nope, not a football pitch this time. This one’s for the bean counters out there.
Nope, not a football pitch this time. This one’s for the bean counters out there.

The «size of Wales» chestnut

Isn’t it nice to have a couple of photos to mix things up a bit? Well, when it comes to seeing the big picture, that’s where we feel most comfortable venturing into those grey areas. Especially when they’re far removed from our own lives. In those situations, journalists in particular incorporate imagery into their work to put sizes into perspective. Reporters in the UK, for instance, use «the size of Wales» as a measurement to describe the size of a burning forest or a fractured iceberg.

Wales is about half the size of Switzerland. And eight times the size of Saarland, Germany’s smallest and favourite size reference state (website in German). It’s not like anyone knows what the exact dimensions of Wales, Switzerland or Saarland are. Even so, a rough sense of their sizes is better than a specific figure, because at least everyone in the equation has a vague idea.

Who knows how big Wales really is? It’s certainly photogenic, though.
Who knows how big Wales really is? It’s certainly photogenic, though.
Source: Shutterstock/Pajor Pawel

This way of thinking can work incredibly well on big-picture issues, but it can also be a good strategy for dealing with the little things. In many situations, having a sense of proportion is better than being overly obsessed with details. This has been a big revelation for me – some might say as big as a football pitch. Football pitches, incidentally, beautifully symbolise the way we lose our sense of proportion when we hone in too closely on details, and stop accepting different points of view.

Many perspectives, many truths

TV audiences were the first to get access to this ultra-detailed perspective, with super slow-motion, still images and countless camera angles. Nowadays, video assistant referees use magnification and lines to find one absolute truth – one that often doesn’t exist. Human referees stand in front of screens with serious expressions, only to see a different truth from every perspective shown. If you think about it, there’s a nice lesson to be learned in that. The technology, however, has killed the scope for acknowledging it.

He doesn’t have all the answers either.
He doesn’t have all the answers either.
Source: Wikimedia Commons/Werner100359/CC BY-SA 4.0

People who make decisions using their sense of proportion, on the other hand, need to have a feel for situations, knowing that other people might see things differently. And hope they’ll be met with understanding.

Let’s give each other an inch (or a measurement of your choice)

It’d be nice if we could say, «I’m not quite with you on that, but almost» more often. It’s not ideal, but it’s okay, give or take an inch or two.

So here’s my rough-and-ready suggestion for living well together. Based on the realisation that life’s unpredictable, you should always make up your own mind. However, don’t get too hung up on the details. If you do, take them with a good dose of humour.

But please don’t ask me what the exact dosage should be.

The golden yardstick (that you definitely shouldn’t use to measure everything) is technically made of wood.
The golden yardstick (that you definitely shouldn’t use to measure everything) is technically made of wood.
Source: Wikimedia Commons/Paulgerhard/CC BY-SA 4.0
Header image: Shutterstock/Larisa Rudenko

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Simple writer and dad of two who likes to be on the move, wading through everyday family life. Juggling several balls, I'll occasionally drop one. It could be a ball, or a remark. Or both.


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