Now this is a weird one. It's something I've pondered on, long and hard, and I've come up with a couple of possible explanations, but I don't like them much. It is a widely, and correctly held, belief that if a child experiences uninvited physical attention it is peadophilia. Move it on up a few years and it becomes sexual harrassment. Quite right too. Shift along a bit further and suddenly, and inexplicably, you have reached an age when, apparently, you are fair game for squeezing, patting and generally gripping, in an over familiar manner, by total strangers. And you're not supposed to mind! Why is that? And why is it that, when the grippee recoils from the assault, it is the gripper who feels they have the right to look offended? What the fuck's that about? The first time it happened to me it took me completely by surprise. I could hardly believe that anyone would think it was fine to lay hands on somebody they'd never even met before, and that this overfamiliar action would be greeted with equilibrium, let alone with pleasure. It would certainly never occur to me to do such thing. The only time I might see fit to visit any familiarity on a stranger, in a public place (or anywhere else, come to that) would be if they had suffered some sort of health crisis and I thought I might be able to help. Otherwise, I keep my hands strictly to myself. I don't know about you, but I think it's a good dictum.
I can remember that first time very clearly. I was browsing in a local charity shop - I like a good charity shop, always have done, found some good stuff in charity shops - and I was looking through the book section, always one of my favourite places, minding my own business and leafing through a possible buy when, out of nowhere a large, shiny faced man of middle years and considerable bulk was swooping down upon me, with the merry quip, 'Looking for a bit of bedtime reading are we, love?' This Wildean wit was delivered in a booming voice and accompanied by a broad grin and a knowing chuckle, as he flung an arm round my shoulders and pulled me into his fleshy girth. I was not happy. I was a lot of things, but happy wasn't one of them. I was genuinely alarmed for a kick off, at the same time as being quite miffed and not a little revolted by this mans clammy attentions. I reacted instinctively. I jabbed my elbow into his well padded ribs and he let go and stepped away, with a look of total disbelief on his face. He then sidled off but continued to make his displeasure known by casting back baleful glances in my direction. I looked around, ready to hear a little sympanthy for this gross invasion of my personal space, but none was forthcoming. Other shoppers continued contentedly about their business and one of the assistants even called a friendly, 'Bye Bill,' as my attacker left the shop. Did I overeact? Maybe. Nobody else seemed unduly perturbed by him playing 'Grab-a Granny' with me. It's possible that Bill was some harmless bloke, regarded as a bit of a card by his friends (always supposing he had any) who thought he was just being friendly. But it's my contention that he didn't actually think at all. I'd like to guarantee that he would never have felt free to touch a younger woman in the same way, or to make what could have been interpreted as a mildly risque comment. He wouldn't dare. But I was fair game, I was safe. He could do what he liked. No. Wrong!
Since then I have undergone many similar incidents. Only this week, having approached a male assistant in a supermarket to ask the location of a particular item, he instantly put an arm around me and said, 'You come along with me dear and I'll show you.' Well meant, I've no doubt. But the over familiarity of the physical contact, coupled with the patronising 'dear' set my hackles rising like a very risen thing. I stood my ground, which brought him up sharp, seeing as he had hold of me at the time. He looked startled, I smiled sweetly. I said, 'If you can just tell me the aisle number I'm sure I can find it on my own.' Again, I got that look of surprise and resentment, but he gave me the required information and I thanked him politely. If we could just have done that in the first place there wouldn't have been a problem. And I have to say that this rarely occurs when my interlocutor is a female. Whether or not that is significant I don't know, it just reflects my personal experience.
Now, we have to consider why these people imagine that their ill-conceived actions are just what we're longing for. I have to presume that they are labouring under the gross misconception that we will like it. Do they, perhaps, imagine that women of my age are so unlovely that we must, ergo, be unloved and desperate for a sign of human affection, from any quarter, no matter how random, and we are positively grateful for these encounters and a casual groping, albeit of an asexual nature, will in some way nourish our withered souls. Not so. I am a fortunate woman, with a husband, several children and many good friends, all of whom more that fulfil my requirements in the affection department. I am content, complete, without physical frustrations of any kind. So sod off!
To be fair, I suppose I also have to examine why these incidents make me so terribly angry. Perhaps there are some people, more patient than I, who can just shrug them off and who really don't mind. Well that's fine, but I can't. I find them intrusive and genuinely distressing, and I've always harboured a dislike of people making ill-informed assumptions about others. However, I am prepared to admit to a whiff of double standards operating here. If, for example, Johnny Depp where to pop out, from between the racks in Oxfam, and make free with me behind the flimsy curtain of the changing room you might well hear no peep of complaint from myself. I have thereby demolished the best part of my argument and exposed myself as the fickle female that I really am. However, I trust I have also revealed a modicum of taste and, I can assure you, the final decision would still be mine. If I happened not to be in the mood then even JD would get the elbow in the ribs.
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