We all make arseholes of ourselves sometimes
I don’t; I'm perfect. 
I was walking back to Waterloo this evening, round the back of the National Theatre. A bloke, who was not a native English speaker, but beyond that, not sure where from (which is relevant, as it may be a cultural thing,) was going in the opposite direction. As he approached, he started to say, "I like your..." pause and looked me up and down, "...jeans. Great, beautiful." (They are, they're bright red.) I half muttered, "Er, thanks." But it was like he had to comment on a single woman, (he ignored the middle-aged couple a few steps behind me,) and then looked a bit closer to find something he did actually appreciate. Though I may just be being paranoid.
Unlike many/most women, I hardly ever get public comments of any sort, never have, just invisible, so I've never really learnt to respond. My main feeling after this was mostly confusion about what had actually happened. And maybe he hesitated because he was trying to remember the word for jeans/jins.
Then I wondered about a couple of small blue mosaic tiles instead. They are with swallows on, which are at the back of what I think was the Hayward.