Say what you like about Hillary Clinton, but she is a woman. Granted, it’s a low bar to set: around 50 per cent of the American population can make the same boast.

But the plain fact is, no one else with two X chromosomes has ever got this close to taking the White House. And if she succeeds, Mrs Clinton won’t just change history: she will change the lives of every small girl in America.

I was eight when Margaret Thatcher came to power in 1979, and 19 when she left Downing Street in tears, having finally been ousted by her restive menfolk. From the moment I first became aware of a world beyond my mother’s skirt, I understood that it was ruled by women: a queen on the throne, and a frankly terrifying premier in No 10.

It didn’t matter to me that everyone in my family’s social circle – writers, publishers, dons, the left-leaning intelligentsia – detested Mrs Thatcher. On the contrary, their apoplexies only made her more fascinating. What kind of woman was this who could provoke – and more amazingly, withstand – such anger? Why did everyone seem so afraid of her, as if she had taken power through some sort of dark magic?