Member-only story
I Got Catcalled in the Street
I’m mad at myself for not fighting back
It had been a lovely but tiring day. My team at work was nominated for an award, and I travelled to London for the awards ceremony. Against my better judgement, I decided I’d walk the two-and-a-half miles back to the train station — in heels. It was a lovely sunny afternoon, and the walk was pleasant, going through parts of Mayfair and into Camden.
I was dressed up — the theme was Hollywood Glamour, so I went for a vintage 1940’s look. But why am I explaining what I was wearing? You see, that’s part of the problem. Female victims of sexual violence and harassment are often judged for what they are wearing, as if clothing could provide consent to these acts. I felt great in what I wore—but it was for me, not anyone else.
I turned a corner and crossed the road outside Mayfair toward Euston station — about halfway towards where I needed to catch my train. There was a building I couldn’t figure out. It may have been a hotel or residential. On the side of the building facing the road were some tables and chairs, and a couple of men sat there, drinking lager.
Female victims of sexual violence and harassment are often judged for what they are wearing, as if clothing could provide…
