I go for a run at the tail-end of the day, trying to run off my anger from this post-referendum collapsing tower of shit and self-interest. I make it through one song before I hear a wolf-whistle, from a someone too dim to wait until I’m further than arm’s reach. I take out one earbud, turn back to him. He is young, probably no more than twenty, with a slight, embarrassed-looking friend. They are only slightly more than my height, barely more than my build. 

What did you say? I ask, turning back towards him. He smirks, and tries to walk around me. I put my hand flat on his chest. 

What did you say to me? I ask again. Normally in these situations, my voice gets higher, my hands shake; I am utterly lacking in authority. But I have been deadened since the referendum result, bashed again and again by worsening news. The latest, that reports of racist incidents have gone up 57% since the result, makes my voice calm, low, firm. 

Get your hands off me! he shrieks, smirking. 

I’m sorry, I say, Don’t you like it? Do you feel like an object that I can just treat how I want? My hand is still planted on his chest, the tip of my fingers resting on his collarbone. 

Get your hands off me! he says again. I’m going to call the police. 

Call them. Do you want me to call them? I can call them for you, if you like. (It is full sunlight. There are at least ten people within ten metres of us. I do not feel afraid, for once.) 

I’m going to call the fucking police on you. Leave me the fuck alone! he says. He comes closer to me, almost resting his forehead against mine, almost touching the tip of his nose to mine, suddenly serious. My finger-ends dig into his collarbone as I hold my arm steady. His face hardens. I don’t care if he hits me. His friend, over my shoulder, sniggers – it feels like at him, rather than at me. The man in my face looks at his friend, and his face softens, almost embarrassed, but not at how he behaved, more that he’s found himself in this absurd situation with this ridiculous woman. 

I’m going to keep walking, he says, and you can follow me if you like, but you’re being mental. 

Am I? I say. Am I? Is it creepy? Does it make you uncomfortable? I keep pace with him for a metre or two, but my legs need to run and the children will be home soon and I’ve got bigger fish to fry than this dipshit. Fine, I say, I’m going to keep running. But I’d like you to consider just taking five seconds – five seconds, that’s all – to think about what you did, and how much women hate that, and how it’s horrid, and it’s scary. 

I can respect that, his friend says gently, and smiles at me. 

Thanks dude, I say. 

I run a better time that I’ve ever run that route before, making it home still buzzing, powered by adrenaline and the angry thought that they could have been meeting friends, and I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what I’d done if there had been eight of them, or six, or four, or if they’d looked thirty or forty or fifty, or six foot something, or mean, or drunk. I would have just run on, because I like being alive, and felt shit for the rest of my day. 

I hope his friend recounts the story to their other friends. I don’t care how badly I come across. And I hope even one of them thinks about it, even if it’s only for five seconds.