”I wish I had met you 10 years ago,” my lover cooed, after our love-making session, in that unmistakable coquettish tone that lets a guy know he ”done it right”. As she squeezed me tightly in her arms, I realised that a decade ago she would not have touched me with a bargepole. Alas, I was a lout who thought love was a humbug commercial spaceship and had qualms about going down on a woman.

A man’s right to bitch seems to be written in white ink right under the statute that sanctioned the sexist holiday. Yes, I am referring to those genderised 24 hours of Women’s Day, which appears to be the offspring of flatulent political correctness and stale statutory compromise.

There is something quaintly exotic about a woman playing a man’s game. Especially if the game entails the ritual of hunting and hooking up with the opposite sex because they are wont to employ that traditional weapon hookers and trollops called flirting.

The battle of the sexes rages on. I realised this when I was left wallowing in that Freudian cusp of libidinal frustrations by a woman with as much ethics as a beer bottle. Like two inebriated adolescents after a matric dance ball, my partner and I got into heavy petting.