You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?

Last week I was walking home in the evening sunshine, minding my own business, when a random man says to me 'Hey baby, you're just the right height for me! We were made for each other baby, come back to my place...' I carried on walking, suddenly less sure about my lovely red wedges that push me up to about six foot two. Why did this man think he had the right to intrude on my life to proposition me? Why did he think he had the right to comment on me at all?

To be fair, I got off lightly this time. One night last year, I was on my way out for a date. I was dressed up to the nines, and was walking past a pub by myself. A group of three big, burly men outside smoking started to shout at me. 'Hey sweetheart, where are you going?' 'Look at that dress! I bet she's a right little slut'. 'I'd love to have some of that - come sit on my knee, babe'. As I carried on past them, pretending I didn't hear, I got: 'Fucking snooty bitch' 'Little whore' 'Just needs a good fuck, that one'. How would they feel if someone said those things to their wife, their mother, or their daughter?

Not so long ago, my friend R was waiting at the tube for her boyfriend to pick her up and take her to a party. He was late, so she decided to head to the party by herself. On the way she was stopped by a group of men outside a bar, who physically blocked her way until she screamed at them. 'Alright love,' one of them said 'we were just 'avin' fun.' Fun? Is harassing a woman and not letting her get away from you fun?

I'd love to ask these questions, but I seriously doubt I'll have the guts to speak to the next man who hollers at me in the street. Because, you see, the big question on a woman's mind when she gets harassed is: 'Is he going to hurt me?'

Good Housekeeping?

Last week, I felt amazing. Life was wonderful, and everything was right with the world. This was because I was spending most of my time sitting in a farmhouse kitchen in rural France, watching the sunlight glinting off the Loire and knowing that didn't have to do anything I didn't want to do. It was bliss. Then I had to come back.

My parents were kind enough to drop me off on the way back from Dover ferryport. When my mum asked if she could come in to use the bathroom however, my heart began to race, my palms began to sweat, and knees began to tremble. Despite my exhaustion from the day's travel, I was suddenly filled with the urge to run as far and as fast in the other direction as possible.

Even in the modern world, it seems that women tend to be burdened with the housekeeping. In fact, it seems that once a woman is a fully-fledged adult, she apparently starts to be judged on her home. I have internalised this to quite some degree, and will always clean up for visitors in case they go home and decry my hideous squat of a house afterwards. I will clean especially thoroughly for my pathologically obsessed, hypercritical (about cleanliness, at least) mother, who can see pieces of dust which even electron microscopes would have trouble picking up. It will come as no surprise that my mother believes that those who do not come up to her standards live in squalor - me very much included.

Nor is she shy about 'helping' with the situation. One day last year, she went into my kitchen to put the kettle on, and decided to start spraying surfaces with Dettol and de-crumbing under the toaster. She couldn't understand why I was so insulted. Once when I was at university she came to visit, and the first thing she said as she stepped into my hallway was "Hm. You haven't vacuumed."

On this occasion, though, my fears seemed to be unjustified. Even though I was utterly convinced she'd refuse to leave until I'd let her fumigate the entire flat, everything was fine. "Wow", I said to my housemate, "she's finally learned to keep her thoughts to herself!"

The next day she called me offering to send me some Flash Bathroom and Kitchen cleaner.