Gone are the days when the flotsam and jetsam of masculinity would wolf-whistle as I strutted past.
No, now it’s the pushchair and not my physique that garners comments. And I’ve found the heckling has become worse since I geve birth to my second child Gwen, and started using a double buggy.
A double buggy with only one child in it (the little one, when we’re on our way to nursery to pick up the big one) is easy meat for men waiting at bus stops, builders and ‘cheeky chappie’ shop owners. ‘Where’s the other one?’ they ask me. ‘Oh no, you’ve left them at home!’
Oh, how I guffaw at their witty banter.
I’ve never seen a wolf-whistle as a non-verbal way of saying ‘I think you are hot’. In my view, it’s shorthand for ‘you are of childbearing age and not morbidly obese, suffering from some disfiguring disease or disguised as a man. I am a man. And I am feeling bored/cocky/drunk (delete as appropriate).