Grr.

There is a particular look that men in cars like to give young girls standing by the side of the road while they are idling at traffic lights or waiting to go round corners, and it is a look I am fairly sick of - and not only because it is typically employed by men who are fat, old, and bald, and look like their job is to eat glazed doughnuts and drink coffee (ironically, with sweetners instead of sugar - as if it makes any difference) and have hideously inappropriate thoughts about their young secretary.

It is a look that says, "I don't necessarily think that you ARE a prostitute, but I am blatantly considering whether I would stop the car if you were."

Now. I am not a prude, and I am aware that I have boobies, and that this can be considered attractive. There are certain situations in which I would not find this look offensive; for example, if I was, in fact, a piece of steak in a butcher's shop.
However. As some of you may have noticed... I am not a piece of steak in a butcher's shop.

What I am getting at here, is DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT LOOKING AT ME LIKE YOU THINK THERE'S EVEN THE REMOTEST CHANCE THAT I'D SLEEP WITH YOU IF YOU PAID ME TO.

What gets to me more than that - because I know that men can't actually help looking at attractive women - is that, if caught in their leching, they give you this cheesy smile, as if you are going to find it funny. Well guess what.
NOT LAUGHING.

Seriously, let's think about this. There's you; an overweight suit with male pattern baldness leering at me out of the window of a shiny silver Beemer while I stand on the side of the road, in the pouring rain, with an embarassingly hot-pink umbrella, after another day being the lowest rung on the office ladder, with the fax machine malfunctioning and this somehow being perceived as my fault, and people on the phone who don't even have the common courtesy to spend two seconds of their precious, precious lives listening to me say "Good morning Blah Blah Blah Accountants, Jenny speaking, how may I help you?"
Where, exactly, is the factor in all of that that you think makes me sympathetic to your leering? You have a big shiny car. I am standing in the rain, wanting nothing more than for you to MOVE YOUR FUCKING BEEMER so I can cross the road to go home and get into my pyjamas and watch Akira in ten minute segments on YouTube. Your shiny expensive car does NOT make me feel any better about the fact that you are staring at me like a piece of meat carved into the shape of Angelina Jolie.

Also? When are you going to realise that when you 'go out with the lads' on Saturday night, you are, and always will be, the old pervs in the corner. I don't care what trendy slop you're drinking, I don't care if you bought your shirt at River Island, and I don't care if you're wearing those stupid fucking pointy leather shoes (and FYI, brown shoes and black trousers looks so fucking stupid I could choke). It's pathetic. Next week, please stay in. I like to dance with my girlfriends or my boyfriend without feeling like I'm part of some seedy 2am webcam show, thanks. Also, I can stretch to buying my own drinks, but it's nice to know you see me as some kind of charity case - or at least I hope that's what you see me as, because I'd hate to think that you honestly believe buying me an Archers and lemonade (single, to boot) is going to get you anywhere.

In conclusion, if you're looking for cheap prostitutes, I suggest next time you cruise the other end of town. They probably won't blog about you.

Or maybe they will, and it'll end up as some shitty TV program starring Billie Piper.
Ho hum.