Bridget

It wasn’t even that bad. In the great scheme of life as a woman- he wasn’t abusive, he didn’t touch me, he didn’t even really proposition me. He merely reminded me of my vulnerability that is part and parcel of being a woman. I got into his taxi in the city centre. It wasn’t even late- it was early morning and I had been more abstemious in my time, but I think the privilege of my advancing years has made me forget that I will be judged for those things. Within seconds of the journey the driver questioned me about the details of my night; who I was with and who I was going home to. In most of my taxi journeys I am admittedly a driver’s nightmare. Backseat driving, singing along with the radio, drunken rants about politics/my inability to use Uber/dangerous driving, and generally oversharing all add up to a usual sigh of cabbie relief when I finally slam the door. But last night, all of a sudden I was taken back to being a young woman who was thinking about how and when I could escape safely. I stopped myself explaining my sexuality and relationship details and sat silently for the rest of the journey. I didn’t feel safe enough to speak my mind until we arrived home, when I handed over my tenner along with my advice for life, which was basically to stop being a sleazebag and have some respect. But ironically the disturbing thing for me was the fact that he totally took it. It felt like he suddenly realised that I was a white, middle class, middle aged woman and he had mistaken me for a different sort. His easy apologies had me seething for my younger self and other women who don’t have my class, age and colour privilege.