Everywhere. I turn around to see slick billboards and homemade cardboard posters celebrating the great patriarchal tradition of objectification. In film I can rely on the gratuitous cleavage shot, watching women being stalked down a dark street, being kidnapped and tied up. The threat of rape, ever present, rarely spoken, always sexualised. And then reality, the beep of horns, the look-over and self satisfied smirk. These should not be rites of passage. The murmour of men’s voices, dissecting women with words. Determining whether that arse is worth that pair of breasts.
And then someone tells me earnestly that she objectifies men too.