What she asked of me at the end of the night, Caligula would have blushed.

budgieinspector’s last entry made me think about all of the insane people I too encounter on a daily basis. Except that I don’t live in L.A. I don’t even live in Dublin. I live in a relatively small border town that has a population of about 6,000. How is it, then, that I am constantly under attack (for want of a better expression) from perverts, deviants and the mentally incapacitated?Let me clear a couple of things up before I begin my tales of woe. See my icon? Yes, there be breasts here, but I don’t walk around displaying my cleavage on a daily basis (I’d get quite a chill if I did I’m sure). I am normally quite covered up, quiet and apparently morose looking if I am to take any of the “cheer up, it might never happen” comments to heart. Yet, even with this unstudied air of mild anti-social tendencies I constantly find myself a magnet for people who have named and have relationships with their shoes (shut up drdoom77, it’s different if they’re Blahniks).I must admit that I don’t really mind your average eccentric person chattering to me on a bus; it can help pass the time of a boring two hour journey to Dublin very well. I’ve had old ladies tell me fascinating tales of murdered sisters-in-law and institutionalised abuse in orphanages that have made my toes curl. In contrast I’ve had a yellow toothed drug addict with infected looking scabby arms and spray me with her “Tommy Girl” perfume before vomiting on the seat in front of us and passing out. Whatever bus or train I get on, whether it’s the junkie-filled 27 from Coolock or the Bus Eireann evening bus back to Cavan I’ll find some soul with a story to tell who finds my eye-contact-avoiding, headphone-wearing, staring-out-of-the-window or pretending-to-be-asleep stance simply irresistible. Fair enough, I can handle it; it’s just the ones who want to show me their genitals that really bother me.It’s not a recent phenomenon either. Unfortunately some of my earliest childhood recollections involve old men flashing at me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been molested, abused or sexually assaulted but walking to school with an old man following slowly behind you with his penis dangling out isn’t exactly going to produce a golden memory. Then you had the not-so-obvious perverts who would do something innocent like ask for directions before springing their insanity on you. I recall being asked when I was about 11 where the equestrian centre was. After I told the old man he proceeded to ask me if I’d ever seen a horses cock and if I’d enjoy rubbing one. I should perhaps have been expecting it, but nothing like this ever seemed to happen to my friends.Recently my job with Video Drama has opened a new door for perverts who want to persecute me. Apart from pubs we’re the only business that opens late at night so, after being refused admission elsewhere, the crazies are drawn to our bright, welcoming glass fronted shop likes moths to the proverbial flame. After a few incidents of flashers, grabbing and suspicious liquids being found on covers in the children’s section and, typically, on the cover of the newer version of “Lolita” I have armed myself with a hollow, metal bar (the handle of an old brush). The next fucker who shows me his pole is going to see mine - and guess what? It’s bigger, redder and harder than yours pal.