Tracksuit pants with elasticated waistbands would be the height of fashion. Female footwear would be flat all day and then turn into a fetching yet comfortable stiletto at night. Men would go to training schools to learn to put down the toilet seat and feign interest when women are shopping or gossiping. Cooking classes for blokes would also be compulsory – a true recipe for success. After all, the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach. That is not aiming too high.

Men would also be able to stop and ask directions without feeling they were being castrated. It dawned on me that it was more than likely that Superman is only constantly flying about in his pants because he’s lost, but too embarrassed to ask anyone where the bloody hell he is.

A female god would also insist on not just sex education but also relationship education in schools so that toy boys like Wayve, raised on porn, understood that a woman is not just something to lie down on while having sex. Nor would they reject a sexual partner just because of a couple of incy, wincy baby stretch marks.

I then filled out the section listing the number of children I had and whether the births had been C-section or vaginal. Now, if god were female, either blokes would give birth or the womb would become an attractive handbag arrangement, like a kangaroo pouch but designed by Prada or Pucci – the Kangarucci.

The next category on my form was profession – which was another tricky question of late. ‘Working mother’, I wrote, thinking that another top priority for a female god would be to help underappreciated, exhausted working mums who are always running late. I thought back to when my kids were small. I was often so tired I’d put the kids under the sink and the lethal household substances within reach. To ease stress, a female god would install pink lanes next to bus lanes, reserved for mothers, to ensure they got to the school gate on time. Oh, and maternity leave would extend to a decade.

I handed back my patient questionnaire to the receptionist, then tentatively lowered my buttocks onto the edge of a plastic bucket chair. Out of habit, I checked my phone for any correspondence from my spouse. How long had I been waiting for a message from my husband to turn up? Harry was making Godot look punctual. There were lots of fun emojis from my kids and the daily chastising email from my mother (the woman could whinge for Australia), but when I discovered that all of my Harry-shaped inboxes were still empty, I concluded that, best of all, a female god would make sure that marriages don’t break up for religious reasons – that is, because he thinks he’s a god and she doesn’t.