I had a road rage incident with a man recently. When I stood up to him about his aggressive driving, he shouted. “I bet you just wish you were a man!” I shot back: “I don’t, but I bet you do.”

Still, with the gender pay gap back in the headlines, this exchange got me thinking about how much easier it is to be a bloke. The simple addition of one Spinal-Tap-type-trouser-appendage and not only would I immediately score more pay and promotion, but car mechanics wouldn’t lie to me. No one would presume that I can’t parallel park, either.

Life would be easier as a man, but there are still a few undeniably positive things about being female.Credit: Getty

Nor would I be dismissed as an old crone, a bag or a hag. In fact, wrinkles and grey hair would add character. On Tinder, girls half my age would swipe right on me because I’m a Silver Fox.

Yep. The list of reasons why men are luckier than women is long. For starters, if I were a man, I could also gain five kilos without being judged and so would never have to think twice about ordering pudding.

I could also lick an ice-cream without every guy in the vicinity imagining me naked. I’d no longer have to throw myself off the balcony if someone turns up at a party wearing an identical outfit to mine. Plus, I could wear whatever I want. As a middle-aged woman, if I don a short skirt or flash bare arms, I’m immediately arrested by the fashion police with cries of “What night is it? Grab a Granny?” I’m yet to ever hear a man dismissed as “mutton dressed as ram”.

Oh, and four pairs of shoes would be adequate for my entire life.

My phone conversations would also take 30 seconds, tops. Hairdressers wouldn’t charge me triple a trim. I’d never have to worry about stray chin hairs, or shave anything below the epiglottis, including no more of that painful pubic deforestation. I’d even have a choice about whether or not to grow a moustache.

As a guy, I wouldn’t have to apologise for anything. I could just pretty much do what the hell I want.

If I carried a friend’s wailing baby around a supermarket strapped to my chest, shoppers wouldn’t glare but look at me adoringly. I could also display family photos on my office desk without derogatory “What are we? A crèche?” comments from male colleagues.