But ladies: brace yourselves. There’s a new one in town…

Last night, I received an unsolicited message from a man – on eBay.

Yes, you heard right: the online shopping portal.

What could the man who tracked me down on eBay hope to find out about me? Is it my penchant for mismatched china, all the better to pour Hendrick’s gin from, at ill-advised Sunday afternoon tea parties? Perhaps it’s my obsession with the exact shade of lipstick favoured by Sylvia Plath?

What he was actually doing, in fact, was going out of his way to contact me to tell me how wrong and how stupid I was; how I “don’t understand capitalism”. So incensed was this stranger, by a tongue-in-cheek piece I’d written sympathising with a Gen Z TikToker who went viral for crying about her first job after graduation, that he went all out to track me down.

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    8 months ago

    This is the best summary I could come up with:


    (tldr: 6 sentences skipped)

    The one you might (ahem) find yourself trawling at midnight on a Tuesday, doom-scrolling to distract yourself from the dread of the 9 to 5, when you are suddenly struck by the desperate desire for a three-piece vintage suit – or enquiring after the shipping costs of buying red-panda plushies in bulk because they’re just so goddamn cute and would make such good Christmas presents for all the kids you know (look them up if you don’t believe me).

    (tldr: 1 sentences skipped)

    Is it my penchant for mismatched china, all the better to pour Hendrick’s gin from, at ill-advised Sunday afternoon tea parties?

    (tldr: 2 sentences skipped)

    So incensed was this stranger, by a tongue-in-cheek piece I’d written sympathising with a Gen Z TikToker who went viral for crying about her first job after graduation, that he went all out to track me down.

    (tldr: 5 sentences skipped)

    Is the man who contacted me – the one who signed off his lengthy, ranty, intrusive missive with “regrettably yours” – really interested in the sofa I sold in 2005?

    I’ll tell you what’s regrettable: men invading women’s personal spaces, as happens at just about any bar, pub, workplace or park bench (and even on Tinder).

    The strangers who tell you to “Smile, darlin’” or to “Cheer up, love, it might never happen”; the ones who motion for you to remove your headphones in the park, when you’re quite content listening to Taylor Swift, thank you very much, and the lyrics to “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things” have never felt quite so apt.

    (tldr: 23 sentences skipped)


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