Or, the four things I would do if I woke up one morning as a man for the day.

1. Grow a magnificent set of whiskers
Obviously, this wouldn't actually be the first thing I did. But when I had stopped shrieking and running into walls while pointing at my groin and noticed the note and square of mint chocolate that the Sex Change Goblins had left on my pillow explaining what they'd done and when they would be back to collect their, er, junk, this would be the second thing. Currently I favour a thick, perky kind of handlebar with curling ends that I could twiddle at women on the street, but I also wouldn't be adverse to an amusing set of gigantic mutton chops (or what my mother calls buggers' grips) under the right circumstances. I know ordinarily that such a splendid feat of facial husbandry would take several months to perfect, but given the unusual situation I am sure the Goblins wouldn't mind pulling a few more strings for me.

2. Have a fight
I feel the need to be clear here; under no circumstances whatsoever would I allow myself to turn into one of those desperately annoying men who have seen Fight Club seventy three times and masturbate furiously over its alternative anarchist philosophy of male liberation while at the same time keeping their sofa wrapped in plastic and not allowing anyone to disrupt their CD filing system. Nonetheless, I would like to see what my new body could do and in a choice between senseless violence and something really stupid and excessively physical like, I don't know, jogging, I'll take the overblown machismo. Although if this adventure is likely to leave me with less teeth, blood or limbs than I started the day with I might not be so keen. I might be a man, but I wouldn't like to find out that I still fight like I do (eyes closed, hands flapping around a bit in front of me) at a crucial moment. Actually, forget the fight, I'd just like to see if with more strength at my disposal it is at all possible to punch someone and have them fly back into a handy pile of cardboard boxes / off a petrol tanker hurtling down the M4 / into a display of knock-off Slovakian tequila while waving a flaming torch.

3. Strut about for a bit in a fabulous suit
A breathtakingly expensive, fabulous crafted black pinstripe number. With absolutely no nineteen-year-old-estate-agent black shirt or comedy tie. It is often the case that people brought up in a strict, Marks & Spencer golfing jumper kind of household get their kicks from imagining the objects of their desire in cheap red nylon peephole bras. I, who would have no problems with my beaus wearing fishnet stockings if they felt like it - well, it saves me the bother of having to - can be turned giddy at the extremities by a man in a beautifully fitting suit. Wearing such a mystical totem of male power could unlock all manner of previously peculiar behaviour for me, too. I might get on the tube and sit for a bit with my legs wide open (others have told me that when men do that they're attempting show off something far less impressive than their amazing gusset stitching, but I can't believe them). I might take a large book about war into the toilet with me and finally become enlightened as to the attraction of reading in that less than salubrious environment. Either way I'd probably end up admiring myself in some mirrored office building for a little longer than was seemly which would inevitably lead me to wanting to

4. Have sex
Obviously. However, I foresee logistical difficulties. Am I still a woman but with a man's body? Or am I a man right down to the DNA? Not that I'd care which gender this led me to favour, but I suspect it would influence my feelings towards the mechanics of actually finding someone to have sex with. Unless of course I'd been made that kind of pestilent oaf whose favoured way of impressing people into sleeping with them is to tell them all the details of their incredibly expensive trainers, in which case I'd just throw myself under the nearest fast-moving object and spare society the pain. But never having had to chat anyone up in my life I'd be reluctant to start now, although I feel it would be pushing matters a little to ask the Goblins to please leave Gary Oldman and/or Tilda Swinton on the bed and by the way, close the door on your way out, would you? Oh, and can Tilda be wearing what she was in Constantine? Thanks.

This post was brought to you by the number 4, the letters A and M and the phrase Jesus H Poledancing Christ, I have to get up in three hours.

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