It is early on a Sunday morning, nothing is open, and there are few people on the street. I sit on the street in front of a closed gallery, writing these very words. Of the few people who do pass me many are on bicycles (a common mode of transport here in Amsterdam), while some are walking, but all of them dedicate me a curious glance. No doubt most of them write me off as yet another young dumb tourist coming off a particularly strong dosage of magic mushrooms – not such a rare sighting in this city.

In truth, thanks to my 6am flight, I have not slept and am tried, but more urgently – I’m trapped.

A few streets ago a man of about 50, riding a bicycle, slowed to gawk at me as I walked the street (I am not, by the way, dressed unusually) – and not only do this, but slowed to my walking pace, stopped to loiter around me as I inspected the window front, waiting for me, following me. Even after I gave him a glare as I crossed the road, and choosing to ignore him from that point onwards, regularly caught his reflection in the window as I continued up the street.

Followed, followed, followed.

I had finally reached the gallery I was aiming for, and as I read the sign on the door informing me it was closed, once again spied his reflection, but this time riding on past me (although not without a greedy look my way), and hopefully away. I waited here for awhile, to make sure he was gone, and felt annoyed that this fucker obviously had nothing better to do with his day than stalk a jetlagged, freezing, irritated girl.

I was facing the street at this point, contemplating where to go next, when he rode past me yet again. “What do you want?” I spat out. He replied in a rude and mockingly indignant tone, “Nothing”.

And now I sit here, trapped, because as much as I like to feel like I’m strong and don’t give a shit, the idea of going out there, with the (albeit unlikely considering how long I’ve been sitting here) possibility he is still out there ready to resume his silent stalking, sends me shudders.

I watch a handsome boy ride past, laughing at something his girlfriend has said who is perched daintily on the back, and bitterly wonder why they have been bestowed membership to Normal Sphere while I must struggle through the squalor and muck of Freakville. (Later I saw a couple riding side by side on their respective bicycles while holding hands. Now that’s going too far.)

This has been my sole (and note undesired and strongly discouraged) source of company of late – lame, old, lonely men defiling me with their impure leers and forcing onto me banal conversation that barely conceals their animal intentions trembling underneath. How can this be the makeup of my existence? Soulless, shuffling wanderings on the fringes of society, slowly being devoured by these piranhas who circle for those who have strayed from the group.

Do they now recognise me as one of their own?