I think Daisy in The Great Gatsby said it best; “I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool”.

If I had a daughter I’d hope she’d have my attitude when it comes to protection (when I say ‘attitude’ I’m referring to my irrational fear of child birth). Just watching Channel 4’s One Born Every Minute gives me stomach cramps and a water infection.

I went to university with a stunning looking girl, who was the lead singer in a punk rock band and she was just so cool I could have died. Then one night I saw her being carried out of our student union with a big wet patch covering her little shorts. I was absolutely gutted she’d pissed herself because she’d taken MDMA. I’ll use this story to warn my daughter of the effects of drugs.

When it comes to feminists, just make sure they don’t try and sleep with your boyfriend, I’ll tell my daughter. I’ll lecture her of, as I like to call it, The Great Feminist Minefield that’s out there. Support your sisters, I’ll tell her. Leave them alone if they want to make a few quid from their wonderful naked bodies in some interesting music videos. At first my daughter will wonder if I’m taking the piss and I’ll have to rethink my argument.

I once read that you can judge how working class a person is by the size of their TV. If your TV is 5 times bigger than your bookcase then supposedly you can call yourself a working class hero. When it comes to politics, I want to be someone my daughter looks up to. I might dust off my primary blue Margaret Thatcher dress. At first my daughter will wonder if I’m serious and I’ll have to rethink my argument.

I’ll tell her not to feel too downhearted about her dire temporary job. The poor girl works in one of those offices where when it’s someone’s birthday everyone donates £1 for a card and present. It’s the kind of office where Chantelle in Finance is engaged to Pervy Paul from HR who’s shagging Helen in the toilets of the now empty seventh floor. Oh darling, something better will come up soon, I’ll tell my daughter.

Older men:

No more than a 10 year gap, I’ll tell my daughter. When I was studying for my A Levels I had a part time job at an Italian restaurant and my friend worked at a busy family pub nearby. We both started..how can I put this…getting felt up by our 38 year old bosses. It was nothing serious. This wasn’t the 70s. It was just your ‘over clothing’ sort of stuff and some excellent lines that would have fooled any insecure teenage girl. After a while of comparing notes we agreed that these men were beginning to make us feel like tarts so we took new jobs at Shoe Zone. Just a week in I struck up a fantastic friendship with a gay guy who I trusted with my life. Anyway, I’ll casually mention to my daughter that older men are dull, embarrassing and crap in bed.

Married men:

It won’t end well, you’ll end up with shit on your face, you won’t get what you want and even if you do then it won’t last. I’ll take a firm approach with this one. I can be very judgmental when it comes to infidelity. I usually have little sympathy for both parties involved. I’m not sure I’d feel much different if the ‘other woman’ was my daughter.

Any men that are left:

I want my daughter to adore men as I do. However, I’ll remind her that if she thinks she’s gay, I’ll love her even more for her..I suppose…originality. I was always such a fucking cliche. I loved boys to the moon and back.

You’re an independent woman of the 21st century, I’ll tell her. Get a place with friends, get a flat of your own, do whatever you want and DO NOT trust landlords, car mechanics (unless they know your dad), photocopiers, Harry Styles, self-service checkouts, men who at 24 still have their lunch packed by their mums, public toilets, the Daily Mail, or stockings without a suspender belt. However, did you know that 90% of everything you worry about doesn’t happen? Where did you hear that, she’ll ask. Jane McDonald, Loose Women, November 2013, I’ll reply.