I HAD every intention of writing about something else today. The man I was with yesterday implored me to capture the day’s “extraordinary” events for the sake of visibility, so this is my attempt to do so. The fact that the day’s events were so unpleasant, yet didn’t immediately feel remarkable enough to me to write about, speaks volumes.

We’d gone into town to the Edinburgh Coffee Festival at Summerhall – a large and labyrinthian venue that used to be the old veterinary school. In a city where a love of coffee and disposable income are in plentiful supply, as you can imagine, the venue was packed to the rafters. We’d done a slow loop of the vendors given the stagnant pace of the human traffic before settling on something to try. Finally stopping to take a drink, coffee in one hand and map and coat in the other, someone grabbed me. A full on two-handed bum grab that made me jump and call out. The venue was so busy, there was absolutely no way to discern who the perpetrator was. I felt powerless. I was rattled, aggrieved by the anonymity the situation afforded them, and glad I didn’t injure myself with my coffee.

The unwanted grab left its imprint on my day. I was distracted. I was frustrated. My mood curdled.

We were still chewing over the hideousness of the grope when we left the venue. My partner and I were discussing with incredulity that this sort of thing still happens. We were lamenting the frequency of unwanted touching and how it feels when it happens. We were on our way to have a rummage through some of my favourite shops as an act of emotional salve as three men approached in the opposite direction as we walked through the West Port.

“Look at the f****** puppies on that”

This time, there was no ambiguity, there was no crowd to hide behind, and I surprised myself by instinctively shouting back. I’d had enough.

“Are you f****** kidding me?”

Nothing. Not so much as a glance of acknowledgement, because it wasn’t about me. I was “that” – just a passive object in their performance for one another. A body to use while they displayed their hypermasculinity to one another. It was an act of power and control, and all street harassment is – I was just the human collateral.

We dove into the nearest shop, my heart thrumming and ears buzzing. Rifling through the racks at Carnivale Vintage, I felt defeated. My fingers fumbled over price tags as my nose tingled with the salty promise of an impending loss of composure.

The imbalance of power struck me. They’d acted and continued on with their day, likely without giving me a second thought. I spent the rest of the day thinking about them and how they’d made me feel. To an outsider, it may seem trivial, but both of these acts represent plot points on a very real spectrum of violence against women. Being cat-called in the street while you go about your business is sexual intimidation that impedes your comfort level whilst sharing a public space. Being grabbed in a crowded place where you have no ability to act is not a cheeky bit of Carry-On fun, it’s sexual assault. This is one day’s experience of one woman, in a country where gender equality is considerably further forward than may others. Women spend their lives negotiating a culture where male entitlement is rife. All too often we keep our mouths shut and our heads down and just do our best to get on with our days. But a remarkable thing happens if you mention it to another woman. It won’t be greeted with surprise – it’ll likely earn you her own story of something similar.

Despite our surface level advances on gender equality, there’s still a huge job of work to do in dismantling the narrative that still surrounds violence against women. You only have to glance at the newspapers to see how skewed reporting of it is – be it words and non-consensual touching, to serious sexual assault, rape and even murder. Gigi Hadid was admonished for elbowing the man who picked her up in the street. Soldier Cheryl James was”Locked in for a Romp” rather than the victim of attempted sexual assault by a senior officer. Rapist Brock Turner’s swim times were reported in vindication of his character. Clodagh Hawe’s enforced invisibility behind the “good” husband that brutally murdered her and her children. As I mentioned earlier – it’s a spectrum. The excuses we make at one end ratify a culture that excuses behaviour at the other.

As a mother of both sons and a daughter, I worry about it in the round. I worry that my daughter will have to navigate it and I worry that my sons will have to fight against partaking in it.

So, I’m asking for a simple action. If women tells you about street harassment, don’t trivialise, counter or blame – just listen. There’s likely a world of difference between how it looks to you and how it makes her feel.

And if you’re unfortunate enough to see it in action, call it out. Working to end the culture of sexual intimidation benefits everyone – not just women. We all need to do our bit.