I was in France on holiday with my parents; on a visit to one of the markets we used to frequent I persuaded them to buy me a new top from one of the stalls. It was cut off the shoulder, cotton and a khaki green colour with a camouflage pattern; I loved it because I thought it made me look grown up and sophisticated.
The next day, proudly sporting my new top, we went to the supermarket, and I wandered off to look at the make up aisle. As I was browsing, I felt a hand patting my bum and I turned around smiling, assuming it was my mother. I remember exactly how it felt for my smile to instantly fade as I was faced with a middle aged man, leaning in towards me, stinking of booze. As I reeled back, he kept his hands groping my bum and thighs and whispered something in French that I didn't understand. All I managed to do was stutter 'Je suis Anglaise' and run off to find my parents.
When I told my mum about it, she laughed at me. She told me, in so many words, it happened because I had wanted to wear a top that made me look older than I was, and that my tits were growing too fast. I was nine years old.
Part of me often thinks that this might be the main reason I find it so fucking difficult to like or appreciate my mother.
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