I would like to start this column with the words "In My Experience", so that politically correct souls won't be too incensed by what I am about to say, so here goes: In My Experience, men in north London fall into two camps when the sun comes out. The testosterone traditionalists are split along - gulp, here goes - ethnic lines. Yes, it's true: black men and white men (IME) behave differently when women walk by. White boys beep and yell from the safety of big vans and trucks, but stay silent when face to face on the street.

Now, black men's summer madness (IME) takes a different form. These guys don't need the safety of a vehicle and mates to hiss lustfully at women, and they will not take no for an answer from a blonde with a "black size bee-hind" who responds when they say: "Hello, girl, you lookin' fine!" And I always do.

Recently, a Rasta man in his forties took a shine to me as I bought my travel ticket. Looking me warmly up and down in my very modest jeans and T-shirt, he said: "You are a fine-lookin' woman. What's your name?" I inwardly sighed.

Me: (sigh) "My name is Lauren, nice to meet you." I turned and began to walk away. Inevitably, he followed.

"Where you goin' today?"

Me: (sigh) "To work."

He leans closer and sniffs near my hair. "You know what? You not only look good, you smell good, too. You married?" This is where I pull up the drawbridge of civility and go straight for hard-assed feminism.

"Look, it's really horrible to be sniffed like that, and, as I don't know you, I don't see why on earth I should discuss my marital status with you. Goodbye."

"Ahh," he nodded sympathetically. "So you married to a white man, then? Is you satisfied wi' dat?"

I was torn between a growl of fury and a giggle at his stereotyping of white men as "insufficient" in the bedroom. "Look, it's really none of your business and you shouldn't go around talking to women like this. But, actually, I am very satisfied with my partner, thank you."

"Really?" He looked amazed, as if the idea of a white couple having a satisfying sex life was a completely alien concept.

We were on the platform by now.

"Well, you ever been with a black man?" he asked.

"That really is enough dirty talk," I said, relieved at the arrival of my train. "Goodbye."

Then there's the good-looking young guy who has followed me twice in the past two days. Same patter, same sneaking sexual advances, same responses from me. Today, though, I really turned on him.

"Stop dogging around, OK?" I hissed. "Just because it's sunny doesn't give you the right to chase and harass every woman you see!" Again, my anger was met with a hangdog look and the disappointed eyes - as if I had somehow let him down, broken a contract.

"I ain't no dog. I ain't like that and I ain't been rude to you, neither, for you to speak to me like this." For a second, I felt ashamed. I had chatted with him, after all, enough to find out that he was a gym instructor of 24 studying at night school.

"OK, OK," I conceded. "Sorry for showing you disrespect, but can we just say hello and goodbye from now on and not get into all this chatting up rubbish, please?" I offered him my hand to shake on the deal.

He took it and started rubbing his fingers on my palm. His eyes took on the glazed look, and he actually licked his lips: "But I find you so devastatingly attractive, baby. I can't help myself."

Oh, for fuck's sake.