One old golfer stuck his hand up the back of my skirt and into my underwear as I bent down with his glass of single malt. I reflexively elbowed him in the face and was ordered out. When I complained about what he had done, the bar manager offered to speak to the other places I worked in St. Andrews to make sure I wouldn’t have another job in town. He would also deny it if I reported it to the university, which had no official connection to the golf club apart from proximity.
