Yesterday, being Fathers' Day, I thought about my Dad, and fathers in general, a lot.
I was also reading Caitlin Moran's very fine new book
Its not that he does his fair share of domestic work or campaigns for women's right - for he doesn't.
In fact the idea of my Dad being a feminist of any sort would bring on snorts around the breakfast table.
Its just that he brought me up to be blessedly unconcerned about what the wider world may think, to assess whether society's norms were "fun" and, if not, to dismiss them as fluff and fear.
If I enjoy playing about with make up, if hair dye is fun, if red shiny high heels make me dance - then I should go ahead - BUT if I'm covering my face through worry, if the shoes cramp my style, if I am trying to fight my age - well I should think about the whys and whether they will make me happy.
So I've gone through my life doing only the minimal in many areas - you won't find me up at 3am making miniature gardens for Brownies' shows, you won't find me in a flap about party bags or manically scrubbing the house before anyone can come in.
I cheerfully accept I could never do ballet hair or have feet that look good in sandals.
I laughed so much through it that there is a queue forming to get it after me - Euan (my other feminist hero) is having it for Dougalling reading at the weekend.