The world appears to be turning itself inside out. I feel confused, disorientated, as though trying to read a map upside down. Preparations are underway for a large Women’s March held in London, to protest, among other things, the election of a president who seeks to roll back the reproductive rights granted to American women a mere forty five years ago. A transgender fashion model states to fawning approval that any mention of female reproductive systems should be considered antithetical to the aims of this great march; that they are exclusionary and reductive. Talk of wombs and vaginas is no longer acceptable if one wishes to be considered the right kind of feminist.

But women cannot fight for what they cannot name, and it is only ever those of us with wombs and vaginas can be forced to give birth against our will.

Two weeks on and the actor who first exposed Harvey Weinstein is launching a book in which she details her experiences. A woman raped by a powerful man, Rose McGowan is vulnerable, raw, and angry. She gives a talk exposing her pain to a small, seated audience, but is interrupted half way through by a trans woman who leaps up to stand. Andi Dier is apoplectic: chin thrust out, arm gesticulating, accusing McGowan of wallowing in her privilege to the exclusion and expense of others. What — Dier screams — has this rape victim ever done for trans women? For a moment, McGowan is as expected: smoothing, placating, placid. But the screaming only gets louder until finally she boils over, daring to fight back.

In the aftermath stories emerge, some with links to images I dare not click on, for fear they cannot be unseen. Dier’s internet footprints lead to a dark pit of extreme pornography, while multiple young women come forward to allege sexual abuse while still a minor. Never the less, organisers of the Women’s March make clear their support. The moral high ground belongs to Dier, trans status washes clean all sins. Someone tweets that McGowan can “eat shit”, and more than fifteen thousand people agree.

What was once fury turns to distress. How can it be that women are now being attacked — attacked in the name of feminism — for attempting to represent themselves?

It goes on. It never ends. A well respected journalist is temporarily hounded from social media for couching menstruation as a women’s issue. Women and girls in disaster struck Haiti are sexually abused and exploited by the male aid workers sent to help them, and it is suggested they might consider themselves fortunate at having such an opportunity to “work” in clear desperate times. Prostitution as a job like any other - an argument I have heard many times from mens rights activists. And liberal, third wave feminists.

And so again I find myself busy in the kitchen, radio playing. Jon Ronson on the comfort of strangers, Jon Ronson on magical moments, Jon Ronson on the virtues of aiming low. A song in the credits barely registers at first, although I do recognise the words:

“And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack… And you may find yourself living in another part of the world… And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile… And you may find yourself in a beautiful house… With a beautiful wife…”

For no clear reason at all, the volume blasts suddenly loud, hurling lyrics into my ears:

“AND YOU MAY ASK YOURSELF… WELL, HOW DID I GET HERE?”