THERE we were, unchaining our bikes from the bike rack and having a bland chat about the weather.

The downpour, I’d said, was made all the worse by the fact I was just back from holiday in Australia, where it had been, for the most part, lovely. Days later, there I was in full waterproofs preparing for the deluge.

My fellow cyclist’s face crumpled with distaste. Australia? Didn’t fancy that much, all those spiders.

While spiders are not my favourite dinner guests, it’s the cockroaches I can’t bear, I told him.

Well, he said, it was lucky we were in Scotland as there aren’t any cockroaches here.

Oh, there are, I said. There are problems with cockroaches on Glasgow’s south side, in Govanhill.

“Isn’t that,” he replied, “just the people?” He looked pleased with himself. “Did you just say people who live in Govanhill are cockroaches?” He didn’t take the lifeline. “I mean the incomers,” he said.

The conditioning to be polite kicked in, the ingrained compulsion to avoid confrontation. Instead of giving this stranger a lecture about stooping to the level of both Nazi Germany and Katie Hopkins, “I think this conversation is finished, in that case,” was my pathetic reply.

The hint well and truly missed, he then cycled along beside me for a bit, continuing a one-sided conversation that also included chiding me for cycling down a lane he avoids due to it being “full of junkies”.

Ah, but I didn’t want to make things awkward. I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable.

Earlier this month, footballer Ada Hegerberg, on being awarded the inaugural women’s Ballon d’Or, displayed the same instinct. As the idiot host asked her if she could twerk, she gave a dignified “No” while wearing an expression that managed to be at once exasperated and composed.

It is a situation familiar to so many women. That dawning realisation as something inappropriate happens that it is up to us to smooth it over. It’s often not even a realisation, it’s more instinct.

Not to make a scene, not to make a fuss. Not to make other people feel uncomfortable, especially not the idiot causing the problems in the first place.

One of the great disservices we do to girls is the social conditioning to be nice. Of course good manners are vital. Yes, it’s important to treat people with respect.

But then we end up being polite to racists and sexists when they deserve a rich telling-off. For girls, niceness is about being permissive and docile.

Women are judged by their reactions in these situations. If Ms Hegerberg had given Martin Solveig a piece of her mind, that would have become the story, with her most likely drawn as “humourless”, “aggressive” or “bolshie”.

Women should be likeable. We are trained from an early age to be alert to other people’s feelings.

In part “niceness” is taught as a method of self-preservation. The creep on the street who’s giving you low-level hassle might escalate to high-level drama if you aren’t nice to him.

Don’t make him feel bad about his inappropriate behaviour. You should be flattered by the attention, no?

Regrettably, I’d tried to strike up a conversation with my private hire driver by sharing what I felt was an interesting fact I’d only recently learned.

“Did you realise,” I said, “It’s three penalty points and a £100 fine for sitting in the bike box?”

He was not interested in this fact, he was offended by it. The hump was most emphatically took.

He started going on about how I was wrong, was I accusing him of sitting in the bike box?

I went into extreme placatory mode, complimenting his driving, being apologetic about the existence of advance stop lines.

We arrived at my flat. My purse was out, I was escaping, when… out come the anti-cyclist anecdotes. On and on they go.

I’m polite, I let him go on. It’s 2am and I’m working at 9am. He is robbing me of valuable sleep but he also owes me a fiver change and I don’t want to make him angry.

Finally, the big finale. “I just think you should pay road tax.” Road tax is a misnomer, I say, it’s actually a tax on emissions and bikes don’t create any emissions. Low-emission cars also don’t pay road tax. As I’m saying this, I’m being apologetic. I’ve had one leg out of the car for some time now and I take this chance to slide fully out.

“I think you’re wrong,” he shouts, and I shut the door.

If I could bottle all the frustrated rage generated from polite tongue-biting I would have enough energy to create and power my own twerp-free utopia.

As New Year brings with it time for self-reflection, my resolution for the coming year is to be less nice.

It’s possible to be kind and respectful while refusing to put the other person’s feelings first, surely, so that’s my aim for 2019 – finding a middle ground between doormat and sledgehammer.

Happy New Year, racists, sexists, the ill-informed all. You have been warned.