Brenda Wilkinson’s letter regarding wolf-whistling, (The Star, Letters, April 21), sparked my interest and brought back quite a few memories.
When I was younger, I too used to get wolf whistled at quite a lot.
If I went anywhere near a building site or roadworks, for example, the whistling and howling would soon start.
Unlike Brenda Wilkinson, though, I didn’t like it!
I’d saunter off with my nose in the air or shout out what had become my standard retort, ‘Can I help you find your sheepdog?’, then exit the scene while responses like ‘I’ve not got a sheepdog luv, I just fancy you!’ were ringing in my ears.
Basically, I saw them as a bunch of sexist louts with no respect for womankind and that they reckoned we were put on this planet purely for their gratification.
Now, 30 to 40 years later, no one would dream of wolf-whistling at me, not even on their way to Specsavers.
Any trip past a building site is met with a wall, (so to speak), of silence.
Yes, I still see them as a bunch of misogynists, but in a strange kind of way, I miss being whistled at.
Oh, my twenty-something self would be ashamed of me, but there you go.
Oh well, that’s me I guess, never satisfied.