There I was, on the train home, reading Michael Grant’s Front Lines, pondering the prejudice his female soldiers encountered. And the extra prejudice directed at the black and female soldier. But you feel more comfortable as you think that this was a long time ago.
And then my risotto walked away from me. I know, it’s a first world problem. I’m fat enough as it is. And female.
Sometimes I forget.
But there I was, on the Virgin East Coast train home, expecting my risotto to turn up at some point. It did. It was offered to the man across the aisle (who already had food). He said it wasn’t his, so the crew member blithely walked on, ‘looking’ for the owner of this risotto.
It was a train full of men in suits. You know, Friday afternoon syndrome. And there I was, having the temerity to travel as though I wasn’t female, and unchaperoned by a suit. And expecting risotto!
I have become used to fairly attentive service from Virgin (ponder the irony of the name), which is why I didn’t instantly shout ‘Hey!’ after my disappearing risotto. I was under the impression we were doing ‘refined.’ (In the end it was the man across the aisle who rescued the situation. He had noted what I’d ordered and suggested she offer the plate to me.)
It’s been a while since I last got the ‘unaccompanied female’ treatment out. Just over four months, in fact.