Groper caught red-handed!
The groper left his prints as evidence!
Thursday 18th September 2008
I was at that weird in-between stage. At eight weeks pregnant, I wasn't big enough for maternity clothes, but my normal stuff was getting tight. So as I pulled on my yellow vest, it stretched over my little bump.
'Won't be long before I need to go shopping,' I grinned to my boyfriend, Craig Gandy, 18.
'Can't wait,' he smiled, hugging me.
'Ouch, careful,' I winced. 'My boobs are really sore.'
My 36Ds had already gone up to an E-cup, and boy, did they hurt.
But life as a busy mum to my sons, Thomas, 6, and John, 5, meant I didn't have time to take things easy.Craig and I were so excited about the new addition, we'd already told our friends and family. And the news had spread around my neighbourhood. I couldn't walk down the street without someone congratulating me. Like that afternoon.
It was 31 July 2007, and we'd just taken Thomas and John to McDonald's. We were walking home, when I saw my neighbour, Monica Notridge, leaning on her front garden gate.
Monica and her husband, Peter, 58, lived on our street.
'How are you?' Monica smiled, as Peter tinkered with his car.
'Fantastic, thanks,' I smiled.
Craig and the boys had carried on walking, then stopped to talk to another neighbour, Julie Marsh, 38. As Monica and I nattered away, Peter popped his head out from under the bonnet.
With his bushy, grey eyebrows, I'd always thought he was creepy-looking, and I'd heard he was a bit of a sleaze. But I never listened to gossip.
Maybe I should have, though. Because just then, he flashed me a smile and came walking over, holding his oily hands up, palms facing out, like a zombie.He stopped in front of me and held his hands up to my boobs.
'Eugh,' he sneered, eyes fixed on my cleavage.
What on earth was he doing? Surely he wasn't going to put his greasy hands on my boobs?
'Don't you dare!' I spluttered.
'Ooh, you don't want to dare him,' Monica laughed.
The next thing I knew, Peter reached out his right hand and squeezed my right boob so hard,
it brought tears to my eyes. Then he reached out with his other hand and grabbed my left boob even harder.
He stood there laughing, but I was in shock. Don't get me wrong, I have a sense of humour. And we've all seen the episode of Fawlty Towers, where Basil gets into trouble with Sybil by accidentally grabbing a woman's chest. But this was different. He'd done it on purpose. And it wasn't like he was my boyfriend, family, or even a very good friend. It was just wrong. And the fact I was pregnant meant it was really painful, too.
'I can't believe you just did that!' I gasped, blinking back tears.
In shock, I stormed off towards my house, past Craig, Julie and the boys.
'What's wrong?' Craig asked, rushing after me.
He hadn't seen what had happened, but he took one look at my vest and his eyes darkened
with anger.
'It was Peter,' I said, bursting into tears and running inside.
In my bedroom, I whipped off my top. The sight of his oily paw prints on my vest made my stomach churn.
'The dirty old man!' I spat.
How dare he?
I put on a T-shirt and went back downstairs, where Julie and Craig were waiting.
'You have to do something,' Julie said. 'He can't go round groping women. Call the police.'
'You're right,' I decided.
So I called them, and half-an-hour later, officers were sitting in my living room inspecting my vest. A few weeks later, they sent me a letter saying Peter had been charged with sexual assault.
'And so he should,' I said to Craig.
But then, the police told us Peter was denying the charge.
'What?' I gasped to Craig. 'What about my vest and the handprints?'
From then on, I avoided walking past Peter's house. And two months after it happened, I saw a removal van outside his property. Thank God.
With them out of the way, my pregnancy went well, and on 28 February this year, I gave birth to 5lb 14oz Jamie-Leigh. She was 4 months old when Craig and I went to Lincoln Crown Court to face Peter Notridge. He was still pleading not guilty to sexual assault, which meant we'd have to testify. As I sat outside the courtroom, I was a bag of nerves. But then, minutes before I was due to go in, my police liaison officer came to speak to me.
'He's pleaded guilty!' she grinned.
'Thank God,' I gasped.
Peter was given a three-month suspended sentence and ordered to sign the Sex Offenders' Register. I read in the papers he'd turned up to court in a wheelchair. What was that about? I'd never seen him in one before.But he got what he deserved thanks to my top. It was the vest evidence I could've asked for.