On a recent trip to the fish and chip shop, the young man behind the counter smiled and asked me if I would like bits with my haddock.
Readers are probably thinking “what a lovely surprise”. It was nice but not a shock for me, Kate the Chick.
Throughout my life, I have had men treating me. As a student, sometimes a peer would open my jam or marmalade for me in the canteen at breakfast. Once after I banged on about not getting flowers, I ended up getting several bouquets. Even in bars and restaurants staff often shoo away my credit card because I have an atrocious credit rating. I am Kate the Chick.
While I’m no Samanta Brick, I am of medium height, overweight and a brunette and, so I’m sometimes told, a good-looking woman. How clever and talented to be me. My looks and other qualities are of course nothing to do with my genes and upbringing.
If you’re a woman reading this, I’ bet you have already got a view on me. That might be because you are entitled to your opinion based on what you know of me from experience but is more likely discrimination on your part.
I’m not a flirt but having wore an ill-advised low-cut top to the tip the other day, one of the workers there stared for ages at my boobs. Do you know what? All the women busy emptying their trash into the skips did not talk to me. They clearly hated me. So much for the sisterhood!
And it is not just busy women in the local community who have blanked me. Sometimes my friends are caught up with their own lives and do not see me face-to-face. Disgusting regardless of how they purport to be juggling priorities such as parenting, work and more.
The absolute proof of the disdain in which women hold me is that no friend has ever asked me to be their bridesmaid. That fact alone has driven me to therapy on countless occasions.
You’d think we women would applaud each other for our wonderfulness. You would think there would be supportive female friendships in the real world and online where women connect and care. I imagine a utopia where they would be networks including blogging ones where people would give people a leg up and support.
I work at being special. I drink only the finest rum and have never smoked after choking on fumes in the back of cars as a child. I work out how to avoid housework especially when I don’t feel like it, and very rarely succumb to gardening.
Take the Easter period when women have not always replied quickly to my emails and tweets. It is all proof of a major conspiracy against Kate The Chick.
Ever since I got naked on my blog, female friends are running to the hills convinced that I am about to ravish their partners. One is even talking of emigrating to Spain. This despite the fact that I live in a rural idyll with an older Yorkshire man who does not have a big gun.
I don’t just terrify women. There is the infamous occasion when I was out to dinner with a gay friend and his boyfriend. Said friend threw a total fit because me and the boyfriend both remembered the same Blue Peter dog from our childhood. I ask you.
Counsellor I. CostaBomb explains that she will comment on this common trend of women and men to hate people like me only if I promise to promote her latest book.
In the workplace, the hatred people have for me probably explains why I have always had less than high wages. I am convinced it is because a male colleague said I had “top baps” in the boss’s hearing and that it has nothing whatsoever to do with me working in the cash-strapped voluntary sector.
I have had trouble with female bosses sometimes. Probably because of my wonderfulness and not because I am not the most brilliant teamworker in the world and can be a right gobby cow. Or that the women were going through their own stresses at the time.
My husband is 11 years older than me and his work contacts can be quite elderly. At a works do, I was criticised by two femaile attendees for being too quiet. They clearly resented my wonderfulness and had not realised I was quiet as I was under firm instructions from my mother not to let Him Indoors down “as you know what you get like when you have had a tipple. Stick to water.”
As a Yorkshire man, t’hubby is interested in me at any moment when my wonderfulness might bring some money in. He cares not a jot what I look like seeing only the wonderful Kate the Chick.
Recently a blogger commented about how she liked my dress when we met. That is the sort of sarcasm that drives me wild. All evidence of the resentment against my wonderfulness.
I am 43 now and thinking I might just have to stop being so wonderful if I ever want women to befriend me and men to fall at my feet.
Oh, did I mention my rather fetching stretchmarks?
And did you see my rather lovely tongue placed rather firmly in that peachy cheek of mine?