Me and the British madness

Last night, while walking home from the local Co-op, I got chatted up by an attractive and charming young lady. Now don't run away with the idea that I'm telling you this because it's a rare occurrence. Far from it. Honestly, it wears you down after a while, having to fend them off. You might think the wedding ring would provide a little protection, but no, they are utterly without shame.

What made this occasion different was partly the lady's somewhat unorthodox technique. She wanted to draw my attention to a small beetle she had captured in a jar. Well, it beats "come up and see my etchings", and given that Frau Grumpy is the Bumble Bee's Friend I am certainly susceptible to such approaches. After I had admired the insect she continued in rather more conventional vein, asking where I lived and pointing out her home.

The other thing was that she was rather younger than I'm used to in these circumstances. Five at most, I'd say, probably four.

And this is where it gets dreadfully serious. Did I enjoy this brief encounter? I did not. Reason: I was torn between wanting to reciprocate her friendliness and trying to get rid of her. What if her parents appeared and accused me of having nefarious designs on her? And even if that didn't happen, should I be encouraging her to talk to strange men? All this despite the fact that it was broad daylight and the patch of grass where she was playing was overlooked by several houses and flats - unpromising for any but the most reckless of predatory paedophiles.

This is a sick, perverted reaction to childish innocence, is it not? In, for instance, Germany it would be perceived as such. But not here in Blighty. Here it's normal. And it leaves me feeling there is a dark stain on my soul. How did we get this way?