It has been drawn to my attention that people (picky women) don’t think of me as a feminist and clearly I don’t look like one at first sight, or hopefully second or third sight, not fitting the classic stereotype – a crew cut, pipe smoking creature in baggy dungarees, possibly bearded, certainly unshaven. There is very little chance of my lovely La Perla underwear being flung onto a bonfire except in the event of an urgent need for ready cash from an insurance company.
Years at ITN, home of the woman-with-attitude, have left me with an ability to speak up for myself and even in these modern times there are still occasions when a chauvinist needs a swift verbal slap by way of a reminder. Not necessary if you happen to have a Kalashnikov to hand, of course.
I was once on my way to compete in the National Sudoku finals (which I will confess reluctantly that I didn’t win and which I mention merely to establish that I am not entirely brainless) when the man in the next parking space to me said sharply ‘Mind you don’t bump my car when you open your door’.
‘Yes sir’ I said, ‘I can see how easily I might be tempted to recklessly bash the door of my gleaming new convertible against the rust bucket that is your 20 year old Nissan and obviously you would have said the same thing had I been a tattooed van driver.’ I don’t think so.
Venturing into the steaming hell that is the London Underground system I then attempted to buy a ticket using a credit card. ‘Oh the sweet optimism of this woman’ is doubtless what you’re thinking but on seeing my failure to persuade the wretched machine to part with a ticket the man behind me in the queue, short in stature and patience, said ‘You bloody stupid woman’, pushed past me and started punching the buttons. Fixing him with a gaze the steeliness of which will have hopefully left him both impotent and sterile, I suggested to him that unless his remark has been a pathetic stab at humour, which it clearly was not, I was minded to bring his behaviour to the attention of a nearby policeman. ‘After all’ I reasoned, ‘You’d hardly expect to get away with saying ‘stupid black’ would you?’
So gentlemen of the world, take note. By and large we ladies don’t like being told what to do. If we want to sport a burkini on the beach we will. Or not, as the fancy takes us. And we will say so.