Yesterday evening, as I stood waiting for my bus on Aungier St, a man at the bus shelter looked me up and down and said: 'Hello love. You've been off spending his money, haven't you? Good woman, that's what you're there for!'
Now. Shall we have some background here? I was, at this time, carrying a shopping bag from a high street clothes shop. He was, at this time, holding a can of Dutch Gold and a carrier bag which held what looked like three more. It was seven o'clock in the evening. He was weaving slightly. I know, I know that I should have stood up to him and pointed out that his awareness of gender relations was disarmingly outdated and insulting, that I was well able to earn and (very much so!)spend my own money, that I'd thank him to keep his sexist opinions to himself in future, if he didn't mind, especially when addressing classy young ladies such as myself.
Nevertheless, it doesn't do to start talking to men drinking lager at bus stops in the early evening. Unless you're Marie, obviously. Then it's called your love-life. I weep for the number of feminist stances I have been forced to forgoe for the sake of common sense. Damn personal safety! I resist hypocrisy in all it's forms!