Yes, it is all men.

Even normal ones.

Following the murder of Sarah Everard, who was killed by a man when taking an ordinary walk through London, I’ve seen the hashtag #NotAllMen trending. I want to tell you a story. It’s not an important or traumatising story, though it is. It’s not about all men, either. But it is.

This is a picture of me a few years ago, at a publishing party. It was a fun party. I met a lot of great colleagues, and some quite famous people. I’d been told that my book was the top selling ebook in the company. I was wearing a new dress. I felt great: successful, pretty. My dress was a little more low-cut than I’d normally wear, but that wasn’t an issue. It wasn’t inappropriate or immodest; it was a warm day, and this was a party. It was a normal dress, and I’m a professional adult. As I said, I felt great. Until I got on the Tube home.

Across from me on the Tube carriage, were three men. Middle aged, white, middle class. They looked like dads at my son’s school. They’d been at a party, or a sporting event; they were drunk and very merry. They kept on looking at me and sniggering. Finally one said ‘Nice hat.’

I’m a successful, confident woman. I’ve been taught to be pleasant to people. I’ve been taught to be pleasant to men. I said ‘Thank you,’ and smiled. Then I looked away. But they kept trying to talk to me. They kept sniggering. Trying to flirt. Looking at my chest.

I knew that when they said ‘Nice hat’ what they really meant was: ‘Nice tits.’

But I didn’t say anything. I was a mother, a teacher, a writer with two degrees and several awards. A bestseller. I’d been all of these things before I stepped into that carriage and they spoke to me and laughed. Now, I was a pair of tits in a hat.

I didn’t say anything. I tried to ignore them. If you can’t be pleasant to men, you’re taught to ignore them, because if you encourage them they might get worse. If you refuse them, they might get much worse. They asked me my name. I didn’t answer. They said, ‘You look like a Jemima. We’ll call you Jemima.’

Now these were really normal-seeming guys. They weren’t scary looking. They were having fun. I wasn’t having fun any more, but they were. In a normal way. Three of them, one of me. No one on the carriage said…