Preface any question put to a room full of people with the words “let’s have a question from a woman now, shall we?” and you can watch the collective feminine blood pressure of the room rise by about 100 points. Add another 50 if that room is filled with lefty participants in a conference whose purpose is to showcase alternative methods not just of communication but of organisation; every time this sentence was uttered, my heart sunk and my blood pressure started to do an impression of a Nasa rocket launch. It’s not that women don’t want to have their delicate feminine sensibilities offended by anything as impertinent as a question, it’s that none of us want to hear this kind of accompanying song-and-dance to show that (sound the alarm, comrades): female inclusion is happening. It also puts an inordinate amount of pressure on whoever the poor unfortunate is who then asks a question, meaning that their question has to be twice as interesting, witty and inspiring as the one that preceded it, all because they don’t own a penis. When the lucky lady in the room happened to be me, the heady cocktail of my anger at hearing those dreaded words plus said pressure meant that my previously beautifully formulated question on media attention in Bahrain turned into something so stupid that people turned around to glare at me for wasting the room’s time.