The voting lobbies in Westminster are crowded. MPs pour in to them from the three available doors and form a scrum at the end where we declare our names. One of the doorways which leads straight from the chamber of the House of Commons demands that you stand in a very narrow winding stairway waiting to descend in to the packed lobby. Six or seven people can fit uncomfortably on these stairs, nine or 10 would have to be friendly.

Last week I was squished on one of those stairwells, forced into almost full bodily contact with a man I know horrible stories about. A man about whom I have listened to someone crying on the phone.

Every fibre of my body feels repelled, I close my eyes, hold my breath as if preparing to dive into deep water. I manage to surge forward quickly into the safety of the scrum. But it’s not safe. In that scrum I am again presented with others who don’t want to catch my eye, or those who don’t give a toss if they do because they have grown used to making people feel uncomfortable.

There are others who look notably sorry, sad and repentant. I am certain that none of them feel as uncomfortable as I do. They only have to deal with me knowing and maybe one or two others. I know all of the stories. When I’m surrounded, I feel like Whoopi Goldberg in the film Ghost as she fights through the clamour of the needy dead. I break free of my own lobby into the scrum of all the members of parliament and push through the crowd in the chamber to head back to my office. I’m forced to bow my head, to push through in a way that means I don’t encounter the men from the other side whose skeletons are jangling in my mind.

As I walk down the corridors, I have to slow my pace to avoid people who have been referred to the police. I wait for the next lift, find a different table to sit at and ultimately stay in my office as much as possible.

The irony that I am the one who alters her behaviour is not lost on me. I notice Damian Green still firmly in his seat by the prime minister in PMQs, as she dares to say: “I want a world in which women and girls have the confidence to be able to be what they want.” It seems some of us don’t need to find somewhere else to sit.

It is months since the start of the Westminster sexual harassment scandal. To quote Mrs May again, “nothing has changed”. Except this time when I say nothing has changed, I’m not lying. Last week, a young woman told me that that week a senior special adviser in the government she met at a lobby event had drunkenly asked her if she had a boyfriend, and when she replied no, he asked: “Are you a lesbian, what’s that like?” As you can see, really appropriate behaviour has broken out.

When I look down the list of Hollywood directors, British TV and radio stars and US politicians (with a notable exception), I see people forced to resign or sacked because of their alleged behaviour. British politics has no intention of following suit. Parliament and those on the cross-party working group set up by the prime minister to tackle this are working hard to clean up the processes. I commend them.

Political parties are similarly trying to make their processes for victims better and more robust at handling complaints. But when it comes to actually clearing out the problem, I am certain that I’ll be packed into crowded lobbies, taking the stairs instead of the lift and listening to tearful conversations for many more years.

When the vote number matters more than anything else, byelections must be avoided. Women and men in Westminster said “me too”, but British politics replied, “So what?”.

Jess Phillips is Labour MP for Birmingham Yardley