I was on Poplar High Street, on my bike, way too hot and late, and it looked like I was going to be late for the flyweight finals in the women's boxing. Stupid, amateur's error – there are only eight minutes of fighting. If you miss even the first round, that's like walking into Macbeth when everybody evil has already turned evil.
If this had been an anxiety dream, its subtext would have been that someone had stolen my personality and replaced it with one that was completely different. Two weeks ago, I thought people who liked to watch women hitting each other were perverts. But women's boxing has been one of many stunning revelations this past fortnight. I didn't need the Olympics to tell me that public life would be better if it had more women in it. But I didn't realise until now how that would actually look, if we celebrated and lionised and listened to and discussed the two sexes in equal measure. It's a different world.
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