I was in Paris last week. Beautiful, romantic and well ... sexist.
Three pals and I went to a little local restaurant. The family-run bistro had a great buzz, the most delicious pepper fillet steak and the most leering waiter ever.
The man spoke only to my breasts. He looked everyone else in the eye, but then explained the menu to my cleavage.
It was like something from a Carry On movie. My companions thought this was the funniest thing ever, and as I blushed my way through dinner, I didn't know what to do. He ogled and smirked and stared and winked.
Just as I was leaving he asked me to go to the toilet and have a look at all the photos of him with famous people. I know, it is like something from a 70s B-movie. As he pointed to the photo of himself and Juliette Binoche, telling me what good friends they were, his arm nudged against my left breast, and again another wink. I had to laugh, I was so shocked.
On Saturday night, Juliette Binoche (above) happened to be at the IFTAs, and I sat at the next table. My pal Blathnaid, who was with me in Paris, went over to her and told her about the waiter. Juliette simply said: "I don't like that man."
So I want my picture on that wall, because I reckon all the photos hanging there are of people who actually really dislike the crass, Sid James-like waiter.