Fiasco in the Record Store
My friend Kate and I were in one of the large record stores in Oxford Street, HMV or Virgin or one of the others. This was back in the 70s when they were records - 7 inch singles or 33 1/3 LPs and we would spend hours browsing the racks. It was a fairly miserable afternoon and we were wasting time waiting for the cinema. We were going to see the cartoon version of The Hobbit, or Watership Down or one of the other movies from that time.
I was on one side of the rack and Kate was opposite me when I saw her pulling faces. I knew her well enough to know that she wanted to tell me something quietly so I left my place and drifted around next to her. "The guy next to me keeps touching my bum" she whispered into my ear. "you should be so lucky" I said "its probably his bag or coat just catching you". "No", she hissed "he keeps following me and just touching ever so lightly." I don't know why but I said "Well, move the other side of me and we'll see if he does it to me", not expecting the same reaction, after all she was the pretty one, I was just plain Jane, all glasses and frizzy hair. I took a quick look at the guy and he seemed harmless enough, probably in his late 20s, wearing a green parka, black as the ace of spades as they say, although his taste in music should have set some alarm bells ringing, I know heaps of coloured guys but none would be seen dead looking through Irish folk music, which was our current favourite.
Casually I swapped places with Kate and took a great interest in the Chieftains and Clannad. I hadn't been there more than two or three minutes when I felt something on the back of my jeans. At first I thought I had imagined it but no, there it was again, a distinct stroke. Kate had moved off and was watching from the corner of her eye and now returned to confirm that he was definitely touching me. This guy must have been so dense. Whereas Kate was petrified I was just plain mad. I put down the double LP of xxxx turned to him and have him an almighty shove. "Wot you do that for" he said to me, trying to look offended. "What did I do that for? for you keep touching my friend and me up I accused." "I never done nuffink" he said, half heartedly. I was making a fair bit of noise by this time but the shop assistants were either blissfully unaware or just didn't want to get involved. There was however, help in a different form. Two rather large and brightly dressed Jamaican women were also in the store, looking at gospel music if I recall. They had overheard me and came over inquisitively.
"We thought he was your boyfriend the way he touching your beehind" said the first lady, "we thought it a very disrepsectful way to behave in public" added the second lady. He's no boyfriend of mine I snapped, we've never seen him before, he's just touching us up thinking we would be too ashamed to say anytghing".
"Well, we'll see about" that says the first lady. They both then, without warning, start hitting him with their umbrellas and calling him a pervert and a molester and telling he should be ashamed of himself and he will never get to heaven, and so many other things. The molester certainly got more than he barghained for that time and hopefully it was a while before he tried that trick again. We said our thanks to the two ladies and left the shop as fast as we could, hysterical with laughter. I don't think we will ever be able to look for records again without thinking of that afternoon.