I'm sure that women have had it much harder - all that having to scrub fireplaces at dawn and bear child after child, without the benefit of cleaning products or disposible nappies. But that's not to say that it's all satin cushions and bon-bons now. We combine being workplace powerhouses, sluts in the bedroom and the ability to whip up a plate of perfectly iced cupcakes at will.
And because we are ridiculously competitive by nature, we have to keep raising the bar. A few drinks of an evening becomes a night on tequila shooters then back at your desk to write a presentation for the board. Giving your husband a hand-job before falling asleep in front of the telly mid-week is now full-on stockings, suspenders and your very own pole to spin round - and we can't just wear heels or carry bags now. It's 7" killer heels and a bag that costs a month's salary. Bloody hellfire - is this emancipation? Is this what Emiline Pankhurst fought for?
So, naturally, you 'd think I'd eschew all this nonsense and plough my own row - but no. I buy into it as much as anyone. And in some ways I like being a modern woman. I spending Saturday night watching porn and getting drunk with my husband before letting him snort coke off my tits, then spending Sunday baking treats for his work lunches. It makes life interesting. But it does create some bizarre juxtapositions. The people you meet at dressmaking class are seldom seen in Harmony stocking up with Liquid Silk and Fresh Jugs 8. Women in the haberdashery section of Johnny Loulous are not rushing off to by a couple of grams for the weekend.
So, in an attempt to make sense of this ridiculous existence, I'm going to keep a diary for a year - charting my attempts to reconcile the different, complementary elements of my life. Comments welcome.
