The one where nothing (very bad) happens
I was 16
I was 16 years old and it was a weekday summer afternoon. I’d finished my shift at New Look and was waiting at a busy bus stop to catch the bus to my friend’s house. I was wearing (of course you’re wondering what I was wearing) a white A-Line skirt to just above the knee, a blue polyester shirt and jelly shoes (it was the 90s and I will never be an apologist for 90’s fashion). I sat on a wall behind the bus stop, and an old man sat down near to me. He started whispering things to me. Vile, awful, sexual things that only I could hear. I shuffled away. He shuffled closer. I quietly asked him to stop. He continued. Eventually I panicked and shouted at him to leave me alone. And everyone else waiting at that bus stop turned to look at me. Not him. Me. I felt the burning heat of embarrassment and shame. I thought; they are wondering why that rude teenager just shouted at that nice old man. I thought: they think I’ve done something wrong. When the bus came I climbed on and sat at the front by myself. No-one spoke to me, no-one asked me if I was ok. When I reached my friend’s house I carried on as normal and never told anyone what had happened. I was too ashamed.
I was 17
One afternoon all of the sixth form girls from three local secondary schools were gathered together in a school gym to listen to a talk from a well-known charity about how we…
