Either way, the result is the same. Catcalling is a deeply selfish act and catcalling me in summer, when I’m trying to pretend I’m in a Carly Rae Jepsen music video, is a transgression I can’t forgive. I don’t want to walk around for the next three months with my eyes fixed on the pavement, in case I accidentally lock peepers with a man and he sees an opportunity to yell.

Annoyingly, I can’t offer one size fits all advice for dealing with catcallers (because sadly, until authorities start taking official action, it’s on us): women who’ve angrily taken on street harassment can sometimes face shocking violence. Meanwhile, invoking the age-old guilt-trip of ‘Don’t you have a mother?’ just feels counter-productive in 2019.

If you have the time and energy, perhaps tell them you were just trying to go about your day and that comments like that really upset you. Sometimes contrition sets in. You could also try turning the camera - and spotlight of shame - on them, taking a leaf out of US comedian Chloe Fineman’s book.

Catcalling: “Why does shedding one item of clothing give men the right to objectify you in summer?”