Read the latest from Marie Claire columnist Grace Dent

By Grace Dent  on Thursday 7 July 2011

• Print
• Share
• Comment

Wahey darling! High five!’ a man shouted at me the other day. The weather was warm and I was walking past a pub en route to a meeting, ‘Eh?’ I said, looking at his hand floating in mid-air. ‘Come on, darling. High five!’ he said, then he mimed the size of my boobs, which I’d been foolhardy enough not to cloak in a chunky fisherman’s jumper.

I’d love to tell you I shouted something back that was brave, direct and unprintable but, in fact, 
I just walked away embarrassed. Ludicrous I know, but I felt slightly at fault. Maybe I was provoking 
him by owning breasts and letting their roundness be slightly accentuated by 
a cotton summer frock?  Maybe I should get a sense of humour. Maybe I should be glad someone fancies me and take it as a compliment. All this crossed my mind. But, of course, three hours later I found myself restored to full righteous-anger mode. I could have happily returned to the pub with a flame-thrower shouting, ‘High five this, buddy!’ leaving him blackened and crispy like when Wile E Coyote plays with Acme dynamite. But I knew the police would take a dim view of this.

‘Hot weather heckling’ has always rankled with me. Who are those spineless men who yell ‘nice melons’ from the comfort of white vans at unsuspecting women as they cross the road? Why do they stand on corners hissing and clicking at passing girls as if trying to attract the attention of a llama at feeding time? Do they not have mothers and sisters of their own? And, incidentally, what is their pick-up success rate with the hollering technique anyway? Yes, I can just see white van man’s bed rocking every night with women gasping, ‘I saw him 
outside Chicken 
Cottage making a noise like a zookeeper and thought, “I must go home with this one.”’

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want a draconian law to stop men from complimenting women in the warmer months. Summer loving or lusting makes the world go round. If someone who doesn’t know me well wants to say politely and with a side order 
of charm that they like my frock, or I have pretty eyes/nostrils/feet, please be my guest. I would like this. Compliments are good. As long as he’s not shouting it from a bus window then 
going on to request I touch his nether regions, I’ll probably be flattered. I can tell a man’s intention by the way the compliment is delivered, which is why I sympathise with nice normal men like our boyfriends, husbands and brothers. Because the gobby oafs, the slavering leerers and the downright objectionable have made them scared to give a compliment at all.

And just to confuse matters, these days I see women ‘taking the power back’ by acting just as 
badly. The other day, I saw a young woman kerb-crawl a man out walking his dog, shouting from her car, ‘I just saw you walking along and thought you was fit!’ She was a tiny little thing; he was six feet tall with broad shoulders. Did he get in the car and go with her? Of course he didn’t. His common sense said, ‘People who kerb-crawl you are not people to get tangled up with.’ He was twice her size but completely freaked out. Of course, people will read this and say I should be grateful anyone looks at me at all. It’ll be over some day. Years will pass, and age will wither my décolletage, and then I’ll be crying out for a midday boozer to humiliate me in front of a traffic jam. By that stage even the man who sits in the park drinking strong lager and shouting ‘show me your titties’ won’t notice me with my tartan shopping trolley and magnifying specs. Mmm… I’ve had a think and maybe bingo, bus passes and enjoying Daniel O’Donnell concerts won’t be so bad after all.

• Next Article

  

  Read the latest from Marie Claire columnist Chris Addison Read more...

• Last Article

  

  Read the latest from Marie Claire columnist Grace Dent  Read more...