It is not my intention to rally against my own sex but it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of an office job must be in want of a wipe. A wet wipe. And a damn good airing. And by airing I mean of the vajayjay variety.

I am usually averse to coarse nicknames, titles that are made up to laugh at and diminish one’s respect, especially those made up about women by men. And The Bearded Oyster is one such sobriquet. But in this instance I feel it might be rather fitting. There’s a reason such a term exists. I think we can all agree it is quite an impressive sounding alias. There is something quite almighty about it – something mysterious, ancient sounding; a mystical creature perhaps, as dangerous as it is wise.

“Thou shalt journey to the Seventh Stone, and there you will find The Bearded Oyster, a prophet so wise of mind, a true master, that thou life will henceforth be of a greater kind”.

“Oooh,” they said, as they set off. “Is it borne of land or sea? Will it eat us or will it set us free?”

The same description could be as equally appropriate for a good fanny. (Sorry, I should just say fanny because all fannies are good). Why, Legendary Men have journeyed to the bucolic land of The Bearded Oyster since the beginning of time, and their lives have indeed been made greater. (Perhaps the freedom comes from being eaten…?) Such tales have been whispered among curious circles for centuries, and so the legend continues.

But there is also another reason why The Bearded Oyster is pseudonym for vag. Because if you have, like me, been working for lost, long and lonely weeks in a variety of offices in inner city London, you too will know that entering a cubicle of the women’s toilets is like being sucked alive by some such scary sea monster and you realise that all these females have been so long sitting with crossed legs that their (our – who am I kidding?) vaginas get CLAMmed shut with such an intensity that it repeatedly suffocates, gasps for breath, for fresh air, and when it is again prized open at limited intervals it’s odour can only be likened to the opening of a sealed packet of processed thin-sliced budget ham. Watery and warm, musty, and a bit fleshy.

I would not mention this to the world for want of protection of my tribe but it has shocked me how often this particular scent is found; every busy office I’ve worked in, in fact. And I feel now a sense of duty to we delicate women, crossing our legs and sitting sweetly all the long days through. I say it is time to embrace the gap and SPREAD THY LEGS. If sit we must, sit open, sit wide. Rest our legs on either arm rest, for example. Lean one leg up the wall. And why not give it a few lunges while we’re gobbling down those Garibaldis? Even better, let’s ditch those suffocating tights altogether, and embrace the whore pants. Such scope for liberty and ventilation with their lacy, gaping holes. And as we struggle through these Summer months, let us throw cunt to the wind, forgo the fusty fanny once and for all and abandon our knickers altogether!