AS A teenager I didn’t get feminism. To me feminists were just a bunch of dungaree wearing, bra-burning twiners.

I never felt I was treated particularly differently as a female – we could vote, get high paid jobs, wear trousers and choose to have or not have kids.

Even when Ross announced he ‘refused to trust a woman or any other animal that bleeds under a full moon’ we were sure he was winding us up.

However, since joining the merry working world I have seen evidence of weird gender madnesses on a regular basis, mostly in small ways.

I have been called ‘darling’, ‘gorgeous’ ‘lovely’ and ‘blossom’ by male interviewees who presumably have me down as a fluffy kitten or a pot plant.

These aren’t hideous words, but I could hardly act this informally to a bloke. Though I did consider trying out pet names at work, just see what would happen.

“Hey studmuffin, I appreciate you answering my questions.”

“Thank you for your answers hunk.”

“Yo, cute-ass, can I hear your thoughts on this news issue...”

I wonder how long it would be before I was hauled in front of my bosses to explain.

And then there have been other occasions when I’ve been called less affectionate names by those offended by my lack of fluffy, caring womanliness. These include my personal favourites ‘Miss Loveless’ and ‘frumpy feminist lesbian’.

While out reporting news across South Lakeland, female colleagues have been ignored by interviewees, who presumably mistake them for something else.

I’ve been told I can only quote a Cumbria spokesman if I arrange drinks with him... be still my beating heart.

And on one startling Thursday, a press officer told me I couldn’t possibly be the paper’s business editor because I was a woman.

My mind went blank, but the feminist in me knows what I should have said.

“Hey there you sweet-talking eye-candy, good lovin’ sexy pegs, I think you will find I can.”