I work on a street in London which is renowned for its jewellery stores and Jews.  The Jewish Chronicle houses its offices around the corner and so you’ll often find an eclectic mix of bearded men in skull caps and massive Eastern European security guards. My work street is also home to a couple of the UK’s largest creative marketing firms, a media agency and a handful of cute little cafes. Overall, it’s a nice little street to walk down – it’s bustling and busy and the mix of people walking its footpaths constantly gives me something to observe.

Today, it seems, was my turn to be observed.

At approximately 11:55, I pushed open the doors of my office building and began to walk rather quickly down the street. Why the hurry you ask? Well, I had five minutes to get to the gym, change and run into Spin class -  a process that would usually take me 15 minutes. My mind was certainly not paying attention to the cars driving up and down my street, rather I was thinking ‘Shit Shit Shit‘ as I pelted down the road as fast as my high-heeled feet would carry me. But my thoughts were interrupted when I suddenly realised people on the street were looking in my direction. I slowed down. What were they looking at?

OH. They were looking at me. And then I realised why.

A bright white Range Rover had slowed right down to drive  beside me. We’re at a section of the street where cars park along the side, so the usual two-way system is now a one-way thoroughfare, which means he’s beginning to hold up traffic. Cars are slowing down behind him. Trucks are beeping in front of him. They want him to get out of the way.

I look at the driver. He’s leaning out of the window with a smirk on his face. The first thing that comes to mind is Jersey Shore. He’s greasy-haired and hairy (I know this because I can see his fake-tanned arms through the open tinted window) and he’s wearing a white tank top with Gucci emblazoned across the front, with a massive gold chain hanging around his steroid-induced neck. I’m pretty sure his ridiculous white Range Rover is sporting diamante rims.

It takes me a second or two to register that he’s talking to me. Like in the movies, I’m in my own internal monologue and everything is quiet, and now suddenly the outside noises grow in volume and I’m thrown back into reality. (Bear with me, it sounds melodramatic but it helps with the retelling!)

“Oi! I’m talking to you lady!”

Cars are tooting their horns and people in the surrounding jewellery stores are actually stepping out to see what all the noise is about. I keep walking but turn to the car and wave my hands like Beyonce. To the left, To the left…

“You’re holding up traffic. Keep going. I’m not interested, mate.”

I cringe. I tend to find that in embarrassing situations my ‘Aussie-ness’ comes out. Mate? Mate? I NEVER call people ‘mate’.

And then what happens next makes me stop dead in my tracks.

“Well you can just f*ck off then YOU SLUT!” he yells, practically climbing out the window. “You know what you are? A slut. Who do you think you are?!”

I can feel my face burning. I catch the eye of one of the Polish security guards standing on the corner and he looks back at me. A group of women on a cigarette break are staring at me with open mouths. All I can think is Did he just call me a slut?

I look down at what I’m wearing. Okay, so I’m in pretty high heels but nothing higher than usual. My dress could be a little too short but I’m in dark black tights and I’m wearing a jacket. Plus I’m wearing barely any make-up. It’s not exactly Julia Roberts, you know?

Did I look like this? I DON'T THINK SO!

I’m seething. Who the hell is this moron?! I just want to get to gym for f*cks sake!

Now, perhaps I should have had a little more decorum. Perhaps I should have just kept on walking and held my head up high and smiled. That’s what my mum would have wanted me to do.

Instead, I gave him the finger.

(sorry Mum)

Well, that set him off. There were more ‘sluts’, I’m pretty sure there was a ‘c*nt’ and something about having a ‘fat ass’. By this time the cars are really backed up and now there’s  also heavy on-coming traffic. He begins to accelerate, and then stops quickly, leans out the window and yells out one final insult.

“And your hair is f*cking horrible!”

And then he speeds away.

The aftermath is me standing there half laughing half wanting to shrivel up right there and then. I wanted nothing more than for the pavement to swallow me up and keep me there for a while. The ladies go back to their cigarettes and I hear one of them saying “What was that about?”. The Polish security guard nods at me and continues reading his paper. I look at my watch and see it’s 2 minutes to noon. This whole horrendously embarrassing episode only took a few minutes and yet it’s felt like hours. I’m so humiliated that I put my head down and refuse to look up until I get to the gym room floor. On the way back from gym, I walk a different route just in case there are still people there who saw everything that took place.

I suppose I can laugh about it now (and trust me, making that badly photo-shopped ‘re-enactment’ has healed the wounded feeling) but what worries me is that there are men who, at the slightest sign of rejection, turn cretinous and rude. I text my boyfriend. His reply asks what am I wearing…that ‘hotness provokes arseholes’.

Does it matter what I’m wearing? Since when do I have to think ‘oh shit, I better not wear that because some over-tanned douchebag guido in a white Range Rover may make learey comments at me as I walk to the gym!’

I can understand getting looks if I’m deck out in a one-piece full body lycra ensemble or walking around in the nude, but I’m fully clothed, in fact the only patch of skin showing is my bloody face! Should I don a balaclava?!

What I was I AM  wearing is fine, thank-you very much. The real problem lies with the douchebags in this world who need to buy big white sparkly Range Rovers to compensate for their micro dicks.

And so to you, douchebags, I give you the finger. We don’t want you. Keep moving. To the left. To the left.

My office street. On the corner you can see one of the Polish security guards...