I was ten years old, the first time I was shown how to hold my keys as I walked home alone. Ten.
I asked my parents about it last night on WhatsApp, as I watched my Twitter feed fill, over and over, with women typing in terror, in mourning. Turns out, my folks didn’t remember that police roadshow in a field in Scarborough in 1992. Their memories are of a happy camping holiday – of visiting Flamingo Land and York and The Shambles. But I’ve never forgotten the police roadshow, because it was there I learned the importance of the keys and, even at ten, it seemed like a crucial piece of the puzzle that was adult womanhood.
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