‘The men I work with would be appalled if I accused them of misogyny or sexism – they love their wives and girlfriends dearly’

A piece of me dies each morning when I throw on my muddy clothes and stumble out into the cold for another day of backbreaking work. I am mortified to have become trapped in a job that was supposed to be no more than a stopgap when my career as an academic stalled. However, there is no time to indulge these regrets on a building site; it’s a harsh environment in which you have to knuckle down and crack on.

The macho chat disturbs me. Any woman who walks in front of the van is assessed as to whether she would “get it” or not. The men I work with would be appalled if I accused them of misogyny or sexism – they love their wives and girlfriends dearly – but they refuse to acknowledge that their “harmless banter” normalises the sexual objectification of women.

My boss constantly blames his own incompetence on his suppliers, and plucks numbers out of thin air when producing estimates. This blatant lying should be illegal, but he shrugs off the accusation, saying it’s just good business. I feel sorry for clients who pay extortionate prices for our very mediocre services.

When I’m working in people’s homes, I worry that I’m perceived as a hapless brute who needs to be placated with regular cups of sugary tea. However, the lack of an obvious outlet for my personality makes me withdraw further and further into myself. I get torrents of verbal abuse from my boss as soon as he loses his temper, and I often find myself welling up with anger and frustration. In these moments, I retreat to the back of the van and pretend to be hunting for tools while hot tears stream down my face.

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