so it goes

Victim blaming and rape myths tend to be a year round chorus to leading your life, but it picks up a notch every Christmas. Police forces, Transport for London, local councils and other public bodies get a free reign to indulge their belief that after a night out men are blameless happy go lucky fools who constantly have the problem of not being able to contain their pesky penises and falling into the drunken/not well enough covered or simply all too tempting Hungry Hippo style vaginas of those modern day Eves they’ve been socialising with. We are bombarded with expensive campaigns telling us women what we should or shouldn’t do to avoid being raped. We must watch our drinks like hawks, spending money on special bottle stoppers, lip glosses and portable CSI labs to test for roofies. We must do everything in pairs as if we are partying in Noah’s Ark. We must keep extra money in our shoe to afford a cab, but then carry extra shoes to make sure we aren’t vulnerable in our heels, leaving our tiny lady brains wondering which of our four feet contains the magic cash and taking our attention away from the exact level of flirtatiousness and friendliness we must be displaying at all times around men so as not to give incorrect impressions. We should have nightclub bouncers learn a trick from headmistresses and have us kneel down upon entry to check our skirts touch our knees or issue us with a regulation shroud to protect us. And while we all know we mustn’t have sexual contact with anyone because consent isn’t really a time by time thing, but something that covers you for life. Instead we should be spending all evening considering how we get home. Should we try and renact one of those highly triggering TfL posters about illegal mini cabs or take a black cab and hope there aren’t any more John Worboys out here? (This is actually a trick question. We shouldn’t have been out in the first place so no matter which way you get home, you’re in the wrong, silly!)