A bit of a belated hollaback, this one, but I’ve been off doing other things lately and haven’t had the chance to sit down and write properly for a week or two. The next bit will partly explain why.
I’ve been injured for the last three weeks. For the last two of those, I have been stupefied on painkillers and had the attention span of a gnat. Thankfully, I’m on the mend now. (It was a sprained foot).
Now you’d think that a hospital waiting room would be a fairly safe place, during the day at least. All those signs up saying that attacks on staff will not be tolerated, people passing in and out all the time, everyone being too caught up in their own personal problems to bother with bothering their fellow patients.
Step forward Twat MkIII. Yes, it is you I’m talking about, you were in the waiting room of the Royal Liverpool Hospital some time after 11 am on the 27th of May. Youngish guy, wearing a cap, you had an ominous Christian book open on your lap. (I was a poet and I didn’t know it!)
Now, when a woman is sitting in a hospital waiting room, waiting for the nurse to call her name, so she can hop into the consulting room and have someone reassess her dodgy foot, she doesn’t want to get to know people like you. Especially when she has shown this by hiding behind her own book. When she ignores you and feigns massive interest in the “Look After Your Heart” wall display to the side, don’t embarrass and annoy her by continuing to try and get her attention, in the way you would a small dog. Don’t you know how rude that is? Do you not realise that people do not go to the hospital to be chatted up?
Honestly, some people.
The next bit of street warrior-ness happened earlier today. I don’t think it has anything to do with feminism or that it really counts as street harrassment, but it’s bad behaviour nonetheless.
Right, you, you in the silver Vauxhall (I think, I didn’t stick around to take notes). The arsey-looking bald-headed guy with the tenuous knowledge of the Highway Code. Passing by Abercromby Square sometime shortly after 1pm. Yes, you.
When a traffic light is on red, you stop. When the little green man is flashing on a pedestrian crossing, people are going to walk across. It is not optional for you to stop, you self-important prick. When you do feel the need to ignore the basic rules of the road, DO NOT give the innocent road-crosser you just nearly hit evil looks, as if it’s her fault! I make no apology for shouting or using foul language towards you, as you bloody well deserved it.
I admit this probably had nothing to do with my gender, but it does illustrate the kind of self-important, entitled mindset that feminists often find themselves up against. We are constantly told how we should feel aabout things like street harrassment and expected to second-guess other people’s unpleasant behaviour – of course it was only a joke! Likewise, when out and about of an evening, we are supposed to second guess what any given passer-by might do and make sure we act accordingly – mustn’t drink, mustn’t use certain streets, mustn’t wear revealing clothes, unless a random pervert happens to be passing by. As if we can. As if we can work out in advance anything that a lurking misogynist might do, any more than we can anticipate what traffic signals a substandard driver will or won’t obey.
Okay, some time this week, I’m going to put another more positive post up. I’ve been to see Gunther von Hagens’ Bodyworlds and have plenty to say…