Whenever there is an announcement of a well loved or well known book (very different beasts, we all know War and Peace - we all have vague plans to totally read it, but we don't love it) is being made into a film there is always cynicism and excitement. Throw into the mix 'oh yeah and it is going to be needlessly in 3D' and you're courting full blown panic. The Great Gatsby was the most recent of these books to be realised by Baz Luhman. In 3D. With Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire and Carey Mulligan cast in place of what the book had dredged up from your imagination while reading F. Scott. Fitzgerald's book.

It is telling that few previews and news stories about the film have gone without mention of Fitzgerald's wife, Zelda Fitzgerald. He called her the the 'first American flapper' and used her as proof of his expertise on this new trend, which he was frequently quizzed about - instead of any actual flappers being asked about their lifestyle. Because what would they know?

I read, I think in a Greer book, probably The Female Eunuch or The Whole Woman (recommended to our year 12 English Literature and Language class by our teacher Barry who was a big fan of Greer's handbag = outer womb theory) that because so many women have been on the pill for so long before proper investigation in to female body chemistry (plus it's all in the water, allegedly, so next time you're feeling cheap at a restaurant order up a tall glass of tap oestrogen - it'll make you feel classier) we have no idea about how a cis woman's hormones might roll if left to their own devices. Naturally this implies that eating hormone infested meat and swallowing contraception is maybe not a good idea (especially if it's a prophylactic) but also - it's too late now!

I think now the BBC has shown how it's done. Feminists should take note and, once they have calculated their class (I got emergent service worker and now I don't know what to do with myself or who I am any more), work on a calculator to help people work out what kind of feminist they are. Or if they even are a feminist. I know, I know, it would render many a feminist commentator redundant but I also think it would make things easier for celebrity women and I'd like to make things easier for celebrity women. Indeed all women.

As I understand it the word Feminism is copyrighted. It's just no one can remember who owns the copyright, meaning all kinds of women can weigh in on feminism and call themselves feminists, such as Louise Mensch, or ascribe feminism to women, such as tampon taxing (as in she taxed them as a luxury, not put them through an incredibly trying time) Maggie Thatcher or Mary Berry, when it is patently not true. Because they said so.

Being a lady is hard guys. Like, really hard. It's not enough to simply identify yourself as a lady. Your ladynosity has to ooze from every movement you make, every word you quietly utter and every twin set you purchase (because you are a lady you will have a handkerchief in the event of lady-ing all over the furniture). If you're wondering if you are ladylike enough (it's never enough) then you should probably check your ladyness against this helpful guide in The Telegraph. Yeah that's right The Telegraph are taking it upon themselves to learn you how to lady, lady.

Thanks to finishing schools being a thing of the past those who with to lady away the day have to dirty their fingers with a little Googling. Please try to think of Google as a kind of rectangular, quiet butler who is very concerned with how quickly he can bring you things. You can even say 'that will be all Google' when you're done and click the red cross to close the window.

When people call out your heroes it's natural for your first reaction to be all: 'nu-uh' and in denial over whatever criticism has been made. I like to think I don't have role models as such but I definitely have people who – were I into such things – would feature in my decoupage projects and I'd like my career to mimic theirs.

With her background in improvisation comedy, quick wit and stubborn brow Tina Fey is one of the people with the potential to have her image glued to my light switch. I know, quite the honour. I have her autobiography Bossypants on audiobook (I'm very busy, I have to lie down and be read to nowadays) and spend many a moment laughing at the same joke I have heard before. Such is my high tolerance for Fey.

I have never been able to quite make my mind up about positive discrimination or women only short lists. Obviously, obviously, what I want is for people to get jobs or rise to the forefront of politics or entertainment (are those two interchangeable? I fear so) on merit alone rather than because they are on the right side of general popular prejudices. But it seems difficult to smash such mindsets without force and, well, women only short lists.

One mindset that seems oddly to be increasingly widespread is the idea that women aren't funny. Worse, that women don't have much of a sense of humour. I wrote not that long ago (I seem to have a comedy subject only short list of writing ideas) about my disappointment in Jongleurs comedy club owner Maria Kempinska suggestion that women don't go to comedy clubs for love of comedy, but because they are merely accompanying their male partners – from whom they take their cue to laugh. In a discussion about misogyny becoming more and more fashionable on the stand up circuit Kempinska told Jenny Murray that: “women often go into comedy clubs because of their men.”

The news is full of horse meat (literal and figurative), sexual abuse and economic uncertainty. So it's no wonder we've all seized the opportunity to go, 'Yay! Oscars time again! As always, a wild and unpredictable ride of cringeworthy 'jokes', rehearsed 'loser faces'/'omigoodness-I-won!' faces and cronyistic voting patterns.

The Oscar ceremony itself is a depressing annual reminder that in the eyes of the gathered media the female stars are less important than the shape of their body and the fabrics they choose to drape across it to walk along a piece of red fabric. Or rather - pour their curves into in order to flaunt on the red carpet.

Yesterday just as the world was warming up to discuss Katy Perry’s flouting of the CBS Grammys dress code someone else with a flamboyant uniform came and stole her thunder. So much for Katy’s choice to ignore  broadcaster CBS’s dress code, warning attendees at the Grammy awards to dress modestly for the camera. CBS specified the problematic costumes as: 'Thong type' and urging that the 'genital region' and buttocks be 'adequately covered'. 'Bare fleshy undercurves' and 'buttock crack' exposure was deemed unacceptable by CBS, as were breasts and nipples.

Perry’s mass of cleavage (she went with cleavage instead of bare fleshy undercurves) was overshadowed when the current Pope, Pope Benedict XVI announced what many people thought was impossible – his resignation. It is not the first time a pope has resigned as we now all know from that quick Google on your smart phone.

On Saturday I went to a fifties night (under the impression it was a skiffle night, which was fine, I’m not clear on what it is, but it meant I didn’t get to say skiffle nearly as much as I’d originally anticipated. Skiffle!). Yesterday I stubbed my toe rushing to turn my radio to switch it on as the man who lives in the flat below started playing The Commodores Easy (Like Sunday Morning) for the billionth time. My radio is tuned to Radio 4 and The Archers was on and I, uh, didn’t mind. I keep ranting to people about how annoyed I get when the word ‘purposely’ is used when the word ‘deliberately’ is meant. I am not down with the kids.   

Perhaps you were aware of that. There is just a certain point in your 20s when, as you explain something about GCSEs with your Young Person understanding , you realise actually that was a while ago and you have no idea what the pokemon you’re talking about. When I was at school there was no Facebook and texting was strictly textual.

Mary Beard has been pulled up on this subject before. When the BBC went out on a limb and aired her series of documentaries Meet the Romans many people, specifically AA Gill took great offence that Auntie hadn't gone down the traditional Academic Sexpot documentary host route. No heaving bosom over any artefacts in Meet the Romans, no sir. Just Mary Beard in a red coat (so she would stand out in crowd scenes on camera) laughing at all the little in-jokes the Romans had left behind in Latin for her to find.