I don’t give the final payment to the builder myself, as I’m sick of his creepiness and don’t want to let him into the house again. I make my husband hand over final envelope of cash at our front door, knowing he’s not been bred with any compunction to let someone in when they request it; to let someone put their arm around his shoulders momentarily, repeatedly, when they discuss plans for a business transaction; to let that paid transaction include any conversation about where my husband should sit in his garden and what swimwear he should be sporting when he does it.
The builder thanks me for the payment by text, then, 24 hours later – having clearly given it some thought – he texts me to say that, after we’ve paid him thousands of pounds to work on our house, maybe I just want to let him know if I want a hug. Winky face.
After several hours where I do some thinking of my own, I eventually reply that his message is creepy and inappropriate, and I block him. It feels good, compared to all the times, day after day after day after day, where I don’t say anything, too stunned in the instance, or too wary of consequences because of where I am and how drunk the men seem. Not all men, obviously: just the men I encounter at the supermarket, on the train, on a run, on the library shelves, on TV, in the newspapers, in parliament, in my local cinema listings, at social events, and online.
At lunch with friends, we talk about the terrible men we work with. Bosses who tell us to cancel our IVF as it’s something we’ll regret once landed with a screaming kid. Bosses who take all the young skinny white boys out for breakfasts, then send emails to their bosses insisting they should be fast-tracked for promotion. Bosses who tell us our own promotions are mistakes, our plans are wrong, our ambitions are foolish.
We talk about you, I want to say to those men. We all know what you’re like. You’re ridiculous. And you make the world worse.
At a PTA breakfast, other friends talk about trouble their daughters are having at school amongst their friendship group. Well, you know how mean girls can be! they say. I say, Look at us, guys! How great are we! I say, The friendship of the women in my life are the most valuable friendships I have. Men are hot garbage. Women are kind and hilarious and understanding and way more interesting. Don’t teach your daughters to hate each other already. Women are the best! Show your daughters how great girls are! If more girls learnt how fucking cool women are, we could make the world a trillion times better!
I am amazed I am still invited to these breakfasts, to be fair.