We are blessed with a small but fabulous choice of pubs and eateries near where I live. It’s a tourist haven for six months of the year, attracting people from all around the world.

It also draws people home from all around the world, to reunite with loved ones, have the craic, maybe an oul “dalliance” or two… maybe a bump of coke…

Or maybe to throw their weight – and hands – around in search of female attention.

One such returnee approached our group to brag about his adventures and huge salary in Australia or wherever. I can’t remember. That’s how impressive his tales were. What I do remember is the need to move backwards every time he started a new sentence. With each one, he nudged forward into our space, slowly separating us into two smaller groups, his eye firmly on the youngest of us.

We moved back, step by step, trying to escape the stench of beer and entitlement on his breath. He was telling us about (lying to us about) new houses he was building nearby and how “Jesus, each of them cost me over half a mill—”

“OK, I’m done listening to this,” I heard myself say, giving the let’s-go-over-there nod to the youngest as he tried to encircle her small frame with a giant, beer-soaked, bejewelled hand. We rejoined the group he’d briefly managed to split us from. I didn’t even look at him. I could feel the glare. I’d steered his opportunity away from him and he was angry.

She looked at me with relief and disbelief.

How did you DO that?! she asked. You just walked away. You WALKED AWAY! He was mid-sentence!
“I’ve wanted to do that so many times,” she said, “but I never actually thought I could.”

That gave me pause.

Was I rude? Yes.
Did I care? Honestly? A brief twang of disappointment in myself for being so intolerant. And then it was gone.

Would he even remember?

Later, passing him on my way to the loo, I heard him telling the same story to two young women.

We glanced at each other and shared that look – you know the one. That split second where several weary sentences are silently exchanged and understood.

He was oblivious.

My younger friend’s astonishment saddened me. It reminded me that nothing has really changed. Women still feel afraid to assert their boundaries. Still socialised to listen patiently to a man, even when he’s dull and we don’t like how he touches us. It can be dangerous.

It often is dangerous.

But she thanked me. Said it was class role modelling. That it might help her avoid trouble in the future.
(Oh I hope. I so hope.)

So that’s what I remember most fondly about that night.

It’s not just about coked-up or boozed-up, sweaty pub men who believe they’re entitled to women’s – anyone’s -attention. It’s about all the relationships, brief or otherwise, in which we find ourselves.

It’s OK – often wise, and never too late – to simply walk away.