When does a hug become a grope? 

Is a grope ever acceptable? 

Is it more acceptable for a woman to grope a man? 

Does groping a person in a more powerful position than yourself let you off the hook in terms of unacceptable behavior? 

Can you be a gropee and a groper?

These, and many other questions have been occupying me during these strange Covid times, and also in the light of “woke” culture when, it seems, anything is up for criminal inspection.

In my younger days, I confess to having groped men in what, by today’s standards, would be considered inappropriate places. Some of those men worked for the BBC, many did not; interestingly (and this is only an observation), every man I ever groped received promotion shortly afterwards – a sign not, I believe, of my ability to influence, but my good taste in my choice of gropees (you know who you are).

I groped one prominent politician at a very senior BBC executive’s Christmas party. The man had that week been named as one of the sexiest politicians in Britain, so, in a bit of fun and in full view of everyone, including his wife, I grabbed him and made light of the survey. The following year, he arrived at the party and, out of view of other guests, put his hand up my skirt and groped me with some vigor. The executive wrote me a letter of apology, explaining that much as he tried to control his guests, he was not having much luck (a senior BBC female presenter had also tipped a glass of wine over someone’s head).

I confess to having been surprised at the nature of the grope, although I fully accept responsibility for it – what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander and all that. But whereas my groping was always done in full view of everyone (it became a sort of fringe to the fringe at the annual Edinburgh TV festival), the politician had targeted me away from the crowd and, yes, it felt more invasive.

I cannot remember when I conducted my first unsolicited grope. I was not a promiscuous teenager – in fact, when my first boyfriend took me to Porthcawl fairground, my screams when his hand ventured near my top could be heard far above those of the people on the Roller Coaster; it was, perhaps, the strictness with which I was brought up about sex that led to a curiosity for, and fascination with, exactly what it was that lurked so sinisterly in men’s trousers.

My first grope – definitely unsolicited – was with a schoolteacher, and that, maybe, is where it all began. I had no idea what my hand was being led towards, much less what I should do once it reached its destination (my first thought was a brontosaurus), but the thrill of the unknown was perhaps what stayed with me.

Did I, the victim of a groper, become the gropee in the way that the abused often turn abusers in later life? Was I just having a laugh and, for the most part, not receiving a negative reaction to my behavior, carry on because it was just a good way of breaking the ice with men?

Who knows. But the world has changed. My groping days – at least, in public places – are over; I am too old for such displays of affection, and also, today, I would probably be behind bars.

I am glad to have lived in the era of the innocent grope, though; and, while I would not in any way condone anyone who abuses their position to gain any sexual favors, we have to remember that there was a time when sinister motives did not lie behind every overt (or covert) sexual expression.

Sometimes, a grope is just a grope.