Her book addresses the less rarefied but more pressing problems of how to give girls the same self-belief boys have always enjoyed, so that they can silence the internal monologue of doubt and stop measuring their worth by how much men fancy them. Phillips knows just what a tall order this is, and my favourite bit of the book is an anecdote about her 17-year-old friend being sold to a bloke in the pub by her own 27-year-old boyfriend for a bag of weed. “Today, I call this sexual exploitation; back then, I swooned over the idea that these edgy men found us so desirable,” Phillips writes. I think I would have, too, and wish more feminists would acknowledge this truth. At the time, Phillips and her friend didn’t object, but simply joked about holding a whip-round in the pub to buy her back. Years later, she heard one of the men was serving a long prison term for rape. “It hurts me deeply to say this,” she writes, “but I’m sure if we had known this at the time, we wouldn’t have thought it anything but glamorous.”