2 1GT Tuesday August 11 2020 | the times

times

spending the day with my ex-husband),

I was interviewing for an exciting job

that was a step up career-wise, and I

was thinking about what I wanted

next for life. I had dreams of finding

the right partner and growing my

career. All of that was stolen from me

that night.

I decided early on in my case that

I would waive my right to anonymity.

In part that was because I had to do so

to secure justice by putting pressure

on and attempting to shame the

authorities into action. But it was also

because I hoped in my own small way

to start a new conversation about this

incredibly important issue. It is

because I have waived my rights that

the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS)

prosecutor was able to name me in

court as she read details of the

circumstances of that night into the

record. I have been careful in this

article to confine myself largely to

what she said, but in one important

respect I am going to say more than

she did.

What she did not tell the court was

that on that May night my attacker

was arrested on suspicion of rape —

although he wasn’t subsequently

charged. Despite what he had assured

me in the hotel room, he admitted to

the police that in fact we had had sex,

although he maintained that it was

consensual. We will come back to this

point later in this article.

The court last week heard

everything else about what happened

that evening. Before entering the

hotel room there is evidence from

CCTV and from other witnesses that

I was so intoxicated I could not stand

up. In the lobby of the hotel he took

me to, having encountered me

somewhere earlier, there is footage of

me swaying and hanging on to him to

steady myself.

Later he masturbated over me while

I slept, ejaculating on to my thigh and

the bed, and went on to take a video

of me naked and asleep, so he could

masturbate while watching it at a later

date. He knew this was wrong: he told

the police that he was aware he didn’t

have my permission to take the video

and that if I’d woken up while he was

taking it that it was likely I would have

been upset. All of this happened when

I was asleep and, as the CPS told the

court, vulnerable.

For all this time this man was

stone-cold sober. He had a rucksack

with Viagra and some condoms in it.

I was completely incapable and

vulnerable. And he was aware of it.

A guilty plea

Five years ago Emily Hunt woke up in

bed with a stranger. He has now been

convicted of making a voyeuristic video

of her. She recounts her fight for justice

O

n Friday my

five-year-long

fight for justice

finally ended in

Court 7 of Thames

Magistrates’ Court

when the man who

offended against

me said a single word: “Guilty.” At

that moment I felt utterly vindicated.

I screamed with joy and relief. I even

punched the air.

To me, the fact that he at last

admitted that he was guilty of

voyeurism, in other words, guilty of a

sex offence, and was bailed to await

sentencing next month was a huge

victory. It was a win that I didn’t

believe would happen just a few

months ago, and it was actually a

bigger success than I’d imagined even

that morning.

That brief moment in court was

what I had been struggling for since

May 10, 2015, when I woke up naked

in a hotel bed next to a man I had no

recollection of meeting. At that

moment all I knew was that I was

confused and had no memory of the

previous five hours. As I came to it

became clearer and clearer that

something was seriously wrong. I

became more and more terrified,

even as this strange man reassured

me that nothing had happened and

specifically that we hadn’t had sex. I

gathered up my clothes, went to the

bathroom and rang a friend, who

called the police on my behalf.

When the police arrived I was more

relieved than I could have imagined

possible. I felt sure that they would

look after me and that the British

justice system would do its job and

punish the man who I knew had

committed this offence. But that was

not what happened. Instead I faced

year upon year of being treated with

no compassion and understanding at

best, and as a liar and attention-seeker

at worst.

Sadly this is all too often the

experience of victims, male and female,

of sexual offences. It goes a long way

towards explaining why so few victims

of sexual offences go to the police.

The problem is that as a society we

choose to imagine that victims

typically lie or exaggerate, despite

there being no evidence that this is the

case. And, as in so many other ways,

that attitude is often reflected, distilled

and concentrated in the police and

prosecuting authorities. We need to

change this dynamic. And to change

the way authorities respond to sexual

offences, we all need to start talking

openly about them, accepting that

they happen a lot more than people

generally think, and can and do

happen to anyone.

At the time when this happened

I was at a point in my life where

everything seemed wide open in front

of me. I had just finalised my divorce

(my five-year-old daughter was

You need

to answer

that call

in your busy — and yet

probably time-wasteful

— day. It’s the usual

mix of decent tips,

commonsense

efficiency and harmless

mindfulness. Don’t

have too many

meetings. Prioritise. Do

simple tasks straight

away. Give yourself

a proper break etc.

But mixed in there is

one piece of guidance

that is breathtaking

in its stupidity.

Downright dangerous,

self-destructive,

job-losing nonsense.

You should consider,

the authors of The

Extra Hour say, not

answering your phone.

Such radio silence can

buy you precious bonus

minutes each day.

This might work for

Jeff blinking Bezos,

but if most of us gave

up answering our

phones, it’d buy us

a lot longer than extra

minutes, it’d buy us

extra hours every day,

extra days every week

and extra weeks every

month. It’d buy us, in

fact, all the time you

can save by not having

a job or meaningful

relationships any

longer.

The Extra Hour, a

forthcoming book,

reveals the advice

offered by successful

people as to how to free

up a further 60 minutes

Robert Crampton

T

he modern open-plan

office can be a

distracting place to

work, what with the

combination of no

internal walls yet lots

of electronic whirrings

and beepings from

printers, copiers, neighbouring

keyboards and phones. Not to mention

the one or two Big Swinging Egos who

inhabit every workspace, keen to share

even the most trivial details of their

lives with everyone in a 50ft radius.

This is why so many of us work with

headphones clamped over our ears.

Some favour music. Some go for

low-level white noise. Younger

colleagues like soothing New Agey

babbling brook type stuff. Each to

their own. Me? Keeping up the absurd

Hull hardman persona that has served

me so well, I don’t bother with namby-

pamby southern softie earphones, I go

all in and sport the tatty heavy-duty

ear defenders I got from a builders

merchants for a fiver 15 years ago. The

type of kit blokes with pneumatic drills

wear to batter big holes in the road.

Red and black. Super-padded. My

ear defenders are so tough they don’t

have a logo or a brand name, just a

pleasingly industrial serial number, the

sort of figure you might see stencilled

on the side of a freight train in the

sidings outside Doncaster station.

Anyway, given mine and others’

attempts to block out office diversions,

it comes as a surprise to hear that

during lockdown — a lockdown that

is continuing in terms of working

from home for many of us keyboard

botherers — demand for “office noise”

soundtracks has risen sharply. Who’d

have thought it? After decades of

suffering as Gobby Sandra and

Foghorn Dave recount every last

detail of their weekend telly watching

and shout at their computers, we’ve

gone all nostalgic for the tapping

and the yapping of yesteryear. Or

yester-late March, at any rate. Yep,

the grass is always greener.

Hold on, I’ve just dreamt up a

brilliant wheeze: working from home

soundtracks. The moment is not yet

ripe, obviously, but come the spring,

ideally sooner, once we have all

sloped back to the actual office and

My Will

Smith-like

calamities

Will Smith’s TikTok

video in which he

pretends that his pal

Jason Derulo has

knocked his teeth out

while playing golf

indoors set me thinking

about my indoor

sport-related injuries.

I tore a muscle in

my thigh attempting

a close-range chip into

the kitchen bin during

a game of golf football.

The laws of physics

suggested the chip

was just about on if

maximum elevation

could be generated.

The price of this,

however, turned out to

be a ripped quadricep.

Not worth it. Plus,

I missed.

As a younger and

more foolish man, I

broke a finger slipping

off a window sill during

that classic “Get Round

the Living Room

Without Touching the

Floor” game. When I

was an even younger

and even more foolish

man, or boy, my

brother and I used to

stand barefoot and

throw darts into the

carpet in front of each

other’s toes. Or rather,

sadly, inevitably,

painfully, not in front,

but eventually deep

into my left ankle.

Golf football and

the living room

challenge I heartily

recommend. Carpet

darts, not so much.

been labouring away there for a few

months, presumably we’ll get

sentimental for the present regimen

of slouching to the spare bedroom

in pyjamas and logging on to Zoom.

In anticipation of soaring demand,

I am laying down the requisite

background tracks.

The dog pawing at the door,

desperate for walkies and a wee. The

cat treading all over the keyboard

while miaowing for food. The child

bursting in every five minutes. The

spouse doing the same every 15

minutes. The spouse doing passive-

aggressive hoovering on the landing

because the last time she came in you

were short with her and she was only

going to offer you a cup of tea. The

Amazon man ringing the doorbell.

The Deliveroo man ringing the

doorbell. The Royal Mail man ringing

the doorbell — and the distant echo

of footsteps as he runs away before

you can answer. The sound of your

electricity bill going through the

roof. And so on.

I’m confident that after six months

back in the old routine, my Corona

WFH Spring/Summer 2020 Mix will

be a massive retro hit.

Missing the thrum of

the office? Well I prefer

the sound of silence

I hoped to start a

new conversation

about this

important issue