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Few girls would choose to be right — right, down into their clever, brilliant bones — but lonely. Or maybe it is because Sancerre is so very delicious. You know. And this is where the second problem arises. Feminism, you would think, would cover all this. But feminism, as it stands, well … stands. It has ground to a halt. I have stuff to say! The feminist organisation Object are nuts when it comes to pornography! Germaine Greer, my heroine, is crackers on the subject of transgender issues!

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And no one is tackling OK! And they have to be tackled. They have to be tackled, rugby-style, face down in the mud, with lots of shouting. Traditional feminism would tell you that these are not the important issues: that we should concentrate on the big stuff like pay inequality, female circumcision in the Third World, and domestic abuse.

Eventually, they may break into the building, and light fires, or become squatters. Similarly, if we live in a climate where female pubic hair is considered distasteful, or famous and powerful women are constantly pilloried for being too fat or too thin, or badly dressed, then, eventually, people start breaking into women, and lighting fires in them. Women will get squatters. Clearly, this is not a welcome state of affairs. Crime dropped dramatically, significantly, and continued to for the next ten years.

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We just need to look it in the eye, squarely, for a minute, and then start laughing at it. We look hot when we laugh. People fancy us when they observe us giving out relaxed, earthy chuckles. So yes. If there is a fifth wave, then this is my contribution. My bucketful. A fairly comprehensive telling of every instance that I had little, or in many cases, no idea … of how to be a woman. So, I had assumed it was optional. I think to myself, cheerfully, as I do my ten sit-ups a night. Captain Moran is opting out! She moves to the other end of the bed.

It makes her extremely irascible. In a three-bedroom council house with seven people in it, she is almost perpetually furious. To be honest, it has blown my mind quite badly. The cross-section of the female reproductive system looks complicated, and impractical — like one of those very expensive Rotastak hamster cages, with tunnels going everywhere. I think I thought I was just made of solid meat — from my pelvis to my neck — with the kidneys wedged in there somewhere. Like a sausage. I dunno. This all seems a bit … unnecessary.

Caz is now actually lying, fully dressed, under her duvet, wearing Wellington boots. She has got pregnant by the small dog, Oscar, who lives over the road. Your dog is a whore. The dog licks its vagina.

I have noticed the dog always does this when I talk to it. I have not yet worked out what I think about this, but I think I might be a bit sad about it. She is as stupid as a barrel of toes. Galaxies of nothing are going on in her eyes. I get up.

The dog remains under my bed, looking, as always, deeply nervous about being a dog. I track Mum down on the toilet.

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I sit on the edge of the bath. For some reason, I think I am allowed only one question about this. Even though she is doing a wee and holding a sleeping baby, she is also sorting out a whites wash from the washing basket. Mum thinks for a minute. It remains unexplained. Three weeks later, my period starts. I find it to be a deeply uncheerful event. I am watching myself cry in a small hand- mirror. Or Gene Kelly. The towels are thick, and cheap — stuck into my knickers, they feel like a mattress between my legs. My Sindy, Layla, is trying to solve the mystery.

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The one- legged Action Man, Bernard, is dating both of them simultaneously. We argue constantly over the ownership of Bernard, even though he actually belongs to Eddie. Neither of us want our Sindy to be single. Ten minutes later, and six Pennywise sanitary towels are laid out, like a dormitory, with Sindys sleeping on them. See, Caz — this is the bright side of menstruation!

I give up walking for the duration of my period. My first period lasts three months. I think this is perfectly normal.

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I faint quite regularly. I become so anaemic my finger- and toenails become very pale blue. Now I just have to get on with them. The blood on the sheets is depressing — not dramatic, and red, like a murder, but brown, and tedious, like an accident.

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  • It looks like I am rusty inside, and am now breaking. In an effort to avoid handwashing stains out every morning, I take to stuffing huge bundles of loo roll in my knickers, along with the useless sanitary towel, and lying very, very still all night. Sometimes, there are huge bloodclots, that look like raw liver. I presume this is the lining of my womb, coming off in inch-thick slices, and that this is just how visceral menstruation is. It all adds to a dreary sense that something terribly wrong is going on, but that it is against the rules of the game to ever mention it.

    No wonder women have been oppressed by men for so long, I think, scouring my pants with a nail-brush and coal-tar soap, in the bathroom. Getting dried blood out of cotton is a bitch. We were all too busy scrubbing to agitate for the vote until the twin-tub was invented. Why do you bother talking? The stuff that comes out of your mouth. I want my entire reproductive system taken out, and replaced with spare lungs, for when I start smoking. I want that option.

    This is pointless. Sex hormones are a bitch that have turned me from a blithe child into a bleeding, weeping, fainting washerwoman. These hormones do not make me feel feminine: every night, I lie in bed feeling wretched, and the bulge of my sanitary towel in my knickers looks like a cock. I take everything off, sadly, while I get my nightie out of the drawer. When I turn around again, the dog has slunk out from under the bed, and started to eat my bloody sanitary towel.

    There are bits of shredded, red cotton wool all over the floor, and my knickers are hanging out of her mouth. She stares at me, desperately. I go to retrieve my knickers, and faint. In the midst of this hormonal gloom, however, the cavalry finally arrives, over the hill, jangling its spurs, and epaulettes shining in the sun: my green library card. And that means I can get secret books out.

    Dirty books. Books with sex in.