Wolf Whistle
Stop the press: I just received my first wolf-whistle in twenty years. All right, admittedly it was half a whistle but it was definitely going somewhere wolfish.
It was a beautiful spring day, and I was walking back from the Post Office (returning an Oliver Bonas, collecting an M&S). Whilst queuing, I had noticed that our Post Office stocked a range of curtains, so I must have looked particularly pensive (perhaps romantically so?).
It struck me that, if I had not known the Post Office sold curtains (and would therefore be the perfect place to turn in a curtain emergency), what other important information was I unaware of?
And then the whistle happened, from a man in uniform no less!
I paused before turning, not wishing to embarrass myself in case someone was actually trying to beckon home a cat. But booted footsteps behind confirmed that the (wolf)whistle was absolutely intended for me.
I immediately straightened my back and pushed out my chest (at least half of which responded as intended). I then swung around, flicking my hair à la “because you’re worth it”, ready to engage in sun-enhanced witty repartee.
Which part of my allure could have given rise to this melodic mating call, I wondered? Had I unknowingly been floating gracefully down the street, my freshly-washed hair bouncing in rhythm, with semi-natural auburn highlights glinting in the sun?
Perhaps it was the way I was humming the Aldi advert and nonchalantly swinging my Waitrose bag-for-life by my side? Or was it the bright colours of my new M&S top (boat necks: where have you been all my life?), perfectly contouring my …? No, that can’t have been it.
[It’s a nice top though. Stripey it may be, but it’s quite a feat when fashion designers strike the right balance between ‘relaxed mum’ and ‘children’s pirate party coordinator’.]
I understand it sets a bad precedent when one starts responding to whistles, however I took it as a compliment and have genuinely had much worse.
Making a mental note not to tell his wife about his flirty toot, it seemed inevitable that I would almost certainly have to tell every other person I know.
Other women might complain about being objectified, and rightly so! I hereby promise to lend my support to the anti-objectification brigade when it stops happening to me completely.
To cut a long story short, the postman just wanted to know if I wanted the flyers put straight into the recycling bin as usual.
# Still got it