When I was five, my father bought me a “women are not chicks” t-shirt (I wore it on rotation with my Cat and the Fiddle t-shirt advertising the local pub – the idea that the latter was made in a child’s size seems improbably permissive these days.)

When I was twenty, determined to rebel against something (a hard ask when your parents are tolerant, interesting AND stable) I decided to scandalise some delightful lesbians at my father’s 60th by announcing that I was the new woman in a post-feminist world.