I was recently ‘indecently assaulted’ in my local underground car park. I suppose when I see it written there in stark black and white, I can see it does look a little shocking, but I must put your mind at ease and let you know that I am fine, and will bear no permanent psychological damage (not from this anyway!). It wasn’t a crazed sex offender, with blood shot eyes, brandishing a knife, in fact, it was a seemingly harmless little old man who appeared to be trying to tell me something very important in a foreign language as he copped a feel of my nethers. The irony of the situation is, I have lived or worked around the Kings Cross (ok, Potts Point, the uptown sister, but it’s only one street away) area for many years and I never got groped. I move to the burbs and within 6 months we have a suspected break in and a fanny grabber. Aaaah, the serenity.
Now, we don’t need to go into great detail about the event itself, it really wasn’t that big a deal, and also, I did not play a heroes part, but definitely more of a shocked victim. If it was a young man in a pub who touched me so inappropriately I would surely have thrown my drink in his face and then slapped him, forehand, then backhand for good measure but as it was little old man I continued to smile nicely and politely, almost nodding my consent. I did not intend on going to the police as I thought my statement would merely be ‘filed’ in the great filing cabinet of the police force and after spending hours waiting at the station I would be sent home demoralised and still no less groped. After much cajoling, I was convinced it was indeed my moral duty to report it.
I was very pleasantly surprised by the course of justice! St George PD took the matter incredibly seriously and almost as soon as I’d uttered over the front desk ‘I just got molested’ someone was off dashing away to go and see the CCTV footage of the shopping centre. In true victim fashion all I could think was ‘Would the CCTV footage look like I was coming onto him?’. Hello? He was a five foot nothing, 75 year old man, and I’m enormously pregnant with my toddler in a trolley, surely, I wouldn’t look like the sex attacker in this case no matter what angle the camera was on! I can see why women would fail to report incidences for fear of implication somehow.
I was asked back to the station a few hours later. The constable very considerately suggested that I take D Man home for some lunch and get a sitter to watch him as I may be a while. I think this also had something to do with the fact that he was running in circles around the station making siren noises at the top of his lungs. His ‘WEEEEEE WAAAAAA, WEEEEEEE, WAAAAAA’ beautifully punctuating my every sentence and making the officer wince.
They asked me to ‘bag’ the skirt I was wearing during the incident as, with my permission, they would like to send it for DNA testing. Oh wow. This is serious. Imagine if I’d never watched CSI. I wouldn’t have known what ‘bagging’ was. I’d been wearing that skirt for two days. I knew D Man had smeared banana on it and that I hadn’t wiped it down with anything more than a baby wipe , what if they tried to finger B1 and B2 for this crime? ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, B1?’……oh no, this was getting sticky. I could see myself at a line up with the Bananas in Pajamas there and millions of children worldwide would blame me for the incarceration of the famed yellow duo. This would not do. I’d have to ‘fess up to wearing a dirty skirt.
They have managed to track down my admirer (I’ve decided to think of him as such. Not many people find a waddling, rotund, ready to pop woman attractive, you know) and are now obtaining a court order to get his photograph for me to identify before they barge into his home and accuse him of anything (imagine his poor wife?). Apparently this process can be a timely one. On CSI everything happens within the hour. No-one has to wait months for their favourite skirt to come home from testing and line ups happen almost instantaneously. The thing that I’m most terrified about now is I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, yet alone what a non-descript little old dude from 2 months ago looks like (not suggesting that all little old men look the same. Some of my best friends are little old….no, they’re not, I’m lying).
Here’s hoping I can remember him when I see his photograph. It would be a shame to forget such an ardent admirer.