Going home on a Friday night alone, it was probably half 11 in central London, I was shouted at by a group of drunk men – not unusual, but I was tired and scowled at them. In the station, another, younger set of men told me to stop looking so serious – this made me roll my eyes due to the irony of why I was looking irritated – they called me a ‘miserable bitch’ behind my back. Waiting at the empty bus stop on the last leg of my journey, a young man sat next to right next to me, uncomfortably close for strangers. He asked me, if I would mind if he could ask me where I got my coat – at this point I said, sorry I’m tired yes I would – he went silent for a moment, then asked me my name, where I’d been, where I was going, if he could come or if I would meet up with him and be his ‘friend’. Fortunately the bus arrived at that point.
The next day I was telling my sister – I was frustrated that I was supposed to put up with this everyday sexism, why couldn’t I go home without the added requirement of appeasing random men I walked past.
Her first response – ‘What were you wearing?’