aka: Things that happened to me personally, and very specifically on public transport

Get ready for a rant.

But this one comes with art.

A couple of weeks ago (ok, months now. February got weird and busy), the Internet slid the 1874 painting from German artist Berthold Woltze entitled ‘The Irritating Gentleman’ into my view:

And I love it.

I love that she is looking right at us, and I love everything her eyes are trying to say. I don’t really know for if she’s pleading for help, or just looking helpless and commiserating in that a-woman-looks-at-another-woman way. She might be scared, she might be angry, and she might be imagining violence.

Or

d) All of the above.

I love the extra details. The bystander in the background who is just… standing by (that feels familiar no?). The fact that she is in mourning (how much more clearly can you say ‘no thank you sir, now is not the time’ than that?). The fact that some viewers of the painting suspect she is reaching for a hatpin. And so on.

I love this painting, but it’s also true that I found it quite soon after I had my own interaction with an Irritating Gentleman on Public Transport. Which is perhaps why it really really resonated with me.

So here comes the rant.

A few months ago now, I went to a friend’s house party by train. I was wearing makeup- including lipstick that would make my grandmother question my promiscuity for sure- but was also entirely covered in a coat. And while I was on the train, a man sitting next to me kept trying to interact with me.

I had my headphones in, so when he started talking to me and gesturing at the birthday cake I was carrying in a clear plastic container on my lap, it took me a while to work out what was happening, and then I sort of half removed my earphones and nodded at him and said something like:

‘yes it’s a cake’.

And then I immediately put the earphones back in, and looked away.

He leaned back towards me and spoke again and gestured again, so I took the earphones out again to hear him ask:

‘yes but what TYPE of cake is it’.

Sir, it is a brown cake in a clear container.

I said:

‘chocolate’

And put my earphones back in and looked away again.

Which he took as a signal to leaned in again to get my attention and smiled in a certain way and said:

‘Can I have a slice of your cake?’

And like.

Fuck.

really really

FUCK

No of course you fucking can’t have a slice of my cake. In neither the suggestive way nor the actual physical cake-that-I-have-made-for-my-friend way. How do you even imagine that would work anyway?

So I say to him:

‘ahaha, no no’.

Which makes me Irritated at myself as well as him because I want to be more direct and say:

‘dude, ew’

or maybe:

‘no, fuckoff and make your own cake.’

or even just:

‘Fuck the actual fuck off’

(Which maybe feels needlessly harsh but is actually closer to what I want to say because I feel uncomfortable and I also suddenly feel unsafe).

But the thing is it’s night time and I’m on a train and I’m getting off in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. So

‘ahaha, no no’.

is the option I feel I’m left with.

And the thing is. This was a tiny incident that wasn’t really a thing at all. No harm, no foul.

But it did Irritate me.

And I realise that I’m the outlier and that I’m way more triggered by this kind of thing than most people and than most women even (I know, I know, a lot of people like being approached by men in the wild. I just…don’t.)

But I also just, wish there was an off switch. Some button I could hit, or some sign on my forehead that I could wear in public that just said:

‘No thank you’

or maybe, and more beautifully:

‘It ain’t me, babe’

The thing about the Berty Woltze images, is it shows very clearly that Irritating Gentlemen – and even particularly the subcategory that are on public transport- have existed since at least 1874.

So maybe now it’s 2026 they can just… not?

And I know, I know, that I am more specifically triggered by this Irritation than many other people.

But here are two more stories.

For me, personally, and very specifically on public transport, a few weeks after I moved to Germany and was riding the S-bahn alone, there was the man who stared right at me while rubbing his penis through his pants.

I blogged about it at the time, terrified my parents, and so quickly took the post down.

It was fine. Fine. Mostly I felt angry, because my mind flashed with violence and blood or at the very least a crystal clear image of me dumping my entire water bottle on his lap and screaming shrill and sharp in his face.

And instead all I could do was quietly move carriages.

For me, personally, and very specifically on public transport, there was the man who was watching my reflection on the bus ride home at 11pm in the quiet suburbs of Perth. I saw him watching, so I knew not to ring the bell too early, to instead spring up at the last minute, and to slow my steps to get behind him when he did take my stop and happened to (*shit shit shit*) follow me off the bus.

(I know that many women choose not to wear headphones at night, preferring to hear their surroundings, but personally I prefer to believe that the headphones give the message that I’m not open to conversation. Obviously, it doesn’t always work.)

The man from the bus dropped back to match my pace, and asked questions through my headphoned ears and continued to ask them through my polite one-word-no-information answers. He asked me if I took that bus often, and when I lied and said my (non-existent) boyfriend often drove me to and from work he responded with

‘oh, but I’ve seen you a lot on this bus’.

Fuck.

I mean, FUCK.

I hadn’t seen him until now. But he had seen me. Was telling me that he had noticed me while I was unaware of the notice.

And at the end of the street. At the end of the street that led to my home, he said something like:

‘ok, we split up here, I go this way and you…

…you live over there’.

And he was probably a sweet boy. Really.

But no matter how sweet he was, here he was in the dead of night with no-one else around, telling me he knew where I lived.

And if he can’t read my fear, and can’t read my perhaps-too-subtle-but-certainly-not-too-aggressive ‘nos’….

Then what other basic social rules and realities does he not understand?

Those are just two silly little stories, and as you can tell, I wasn’t really harmed or anything. In fact I wasn’t even touched.

But I was Irritated.

And I know, I know. I am more annoyed by this than most people, than most other women even.

But a few years ago, my mother visited London, and while she was here, a man made some sort of unwanted pass or catcall at her in the street.

And she said something to me like ‘this started when I was 13, I wonder when it ends.’

And that is a bloody good question.

Because Berty Woltze know’s it’s been going since at least 1874.

So I wonder, when does it end.

Or, how do I opt out?

How do I get the giant sign on my forehead, that simply says:

‘No thank you’*

*(‘Yes really I do mean no thank you, and not because I have a boyfriend and yes I’m sure you’re a lovely person, but no I don’t care if you want to be friends and actually me saying no is enough and the fact that you’re reading the fine print right now and haven’t already left already probably says something about your ability to understand consent and respect women’s opinions now doesn’t it, so please do feel free to fuck off, thank you do have a lovely day’)

That’s my Roman Empire.