I knew there was trouble the moment I saw them. A group of boys. A pack. On the other side of the road.
Predictably it started with wolf-whistles. Then, “What a beast!” And ended with words like ‘pig’ and ‘fat slut’ being hurled like hand grenades at us across the street.
I say ‘us’ but the truth is the insults weren’t directed at me. They were directed at my friend Sonja* – a colleague of mine from my days working in PR in London in the 90s. Sonja and I bonded over our love of Ronan Keating (don’t judge me). She was a truly deplorable cook. Fluent in Spanish. Generous as the day is long. She had awesome taste in music and terrible taste in movies. And she kicked my ass in Trivial Pursuit more times than I like to recall. She was, and still is no doubt, the type of girl who lit up a room when she entered it. She was magnetic and hilarious in that Ellen DeGeneres way.