Thinking of The Grove reminds me of, one evening after dinner, someone making a pass at one of the waitresses young enough to be his daughter. She smiled and walked away.
The next evening she was serving him and dropped an apple crumble and custard on his lap. “Oh sorry” she said , smiled and walked away.
That’s how girls looked after themselves before the snowflake generation.
If I knew that waitress, if god forbid she was my daughter, I wouldn't find that story very amusing given how it could have (and for many, has) ended.
Perhaps it's just me, but hurrah for the 'snowflake generation' if it means a child of mine has to worry a little less about unwarranted and inappropriate sexual advances especially from creepy old men.