(The following contains language unsuitable for young children. Reader discretion is advised.)

The hunt for the perfect pedicure continues. Or so was the way I felt not too long ago. Following my lovely time at the VIP Rooms in Clapham where I treated my toes to a little pampering before deciding to take in a little sun in the Common. There weren't as many footballers out as normal, but sunbathers still bespeckled the park. I opted for a bench along one of the footpaths. Oops.

I heard all the bikes ride by and raised my eyebrows aflutter, but little more until I heard quieted footsteps malevolently creep up behind me. Alas, it was too late.

Slap!

I shot up with a violent start to the sound of mocking laughter from about seven to ten boys ranging in age from maybe ten to about fifteen. I was livid.

”You had better run, because you’re about to get your asses kicked!” A mad scramble ensued amongst the boys as I gave chase. They were busy attempting to record the assault on their mobiles, as is all the rage with this quaint little British phenomenon known as Happy Slapping. Don't even get me started on the stupidity of a nation's children who find pleasure and pastime in striking unsuspecting women. Absolute cowards!

As two of the boys steered their bikes into one another, all came crashing down on the pavement. I had them now, and they knew it. One punk looked positively terrified as he weighed the option of struggling back onto his bike or fleeing like a startled chicken. He ran. Ran like a scared child. Already unimpressed that I was now undoing the magic of my freshly pedicured feet on the dirty pavement, I felt no need to keep running. Instead, I collected my souvenir and made my way through the park.

"Hey! You cant take my bike!"

"Watch me!"

The little shit tried reasoning with me that it wasn't his bike. Did I honestly care? His argument went something along the lines of, "We didn't do anything. What? What did we do? You can't take my bike. I wasn't the one who slapped you." He and Jack Nicholson can now take the stand.

The look of absolute shock nearly brought on tears when I informed the little shit that he could have his mother come ask me for the bike as I would gladly hand it over to her. There was a lot of profanity as the boys tried to talk tough. (You're fucking with the wrong girl here, my little pubescent fuckwits.) One kept denying that anything was done until I effectively exclaimed, "Don’t fucking lie to me asshole. Pulling shit like this is not new to me, so enough with the fucking lies!"

Knowing full well his bike was not getting returned to him, they sent over the badass of the group. A stupidly, droopy-panted shit in need of a comb and a haircut, wearing basketball kit three sizes too big for his six foot scrawny frame. "You have no right to touch his bike. That's his property."

"I'm sorry? Brilliant argument there sweetheart, but what gave you the right to touch me, the best property I’ve got going?!" I squared off under his nose and swore him down a good two feet.

It was then that I realized it was a good thing there wasn't a half a brain amongst the lot of them, as I had left my handbag back on the bench and one of them could have easily used that time to nab it. Having elicited enough fear to satisfy me, I began to make my way back. Cue the shouts of, "You're lucky I don’t have my piece on me."

Right. Stop. Turn around.

"That's really fucking brave. You hit someone, as a group, and then runaway like little girls, and now you're talking shit about a weapon? Fuck you little man, if you think I didn't grow up in a tougher neighbourhood than you." (A likely bit of shit flinging on my part, but I think it added a certain something to my convincing demeanor.) "Fuck you. All of you who are afraid to take the beating you've earned. You don't hit someone and run like a chicken. That's not tough. All I’m saying is, if you slap someone, you sure as hell had better be prepared to be slapped back." And with that the pretty lady in the floaty pink ruffled top and ponytail picked up her handbag, slipped on her sandals and fumingly strode off.

Was I alone in the Common? Absolutely not. But the English are more likely to view the spectacle of a girl getting harassed (or doing the harassing) than do anything about it. One lovely, large, bald man walking his dog did ask if I was okay when I returned to my things. He thought the boys might have stolen my mobile.

"No, they slapped me. I wasn't going to hit them. That would get me arrested. I just needed to scare them a little."

"Good for you. We can't let them get away with stuff like that."

"No. We cant, can we?” Allow me to introduce you to Helen Ferreira. Me - Defender of the We.

The slap stung for a good hour. In hindsight, I shouldn't chase down groups of guys who hit me. Especially as two years on, they actually do carry guns knives and aren’t afraid to use them. But there you have it. I hope I left a mark. I know they did. Dammit!)