dimanche 17 juin 2012


Last night (after a very fun evening round at my friend Deborah's), I had a walk home of approximately five minutes, as a taxi dropped Kirsten and I off equidistant from our respective houses.

Walking up the hill home, a man walked behind me at a similar pace.  Eventually, he caught up, introduced himself as Andrew and told me I had 'great legs'.  Although it is obviously not the best to be bothered by strange drunk men at night, he seemed harmless and friendly - and as my legs are not what I would consider my best feature, this made me smile tolerantly before quickly walking on.

Following me to the top of the hill, he elaborated more than I would have liked, to explain exactly why this was: because, apparently, so many girls these days - particularly in a trendy city like Brighton - are all so skinny that 'they practically look like dudes', it was incredibly refreshing to see a woman with 'a real shape, you know, a bit of proper meat'.

Um, thanks?

He then asked if he could take me out  for a drink sometime, I said I had a boyfriend at home, he apologised for making a drunken twat of himself and we parted ways.

This, however well intentioned (and I believe it was), is bothering me more than it should today.

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