Imagine my surprise when I tuned in for some eerie yet wholesome Agatha Christie drama this Christmas, and was instead consumed by a terrifying existential vortex that made me question my entire value system.
The catalyst for my all-consuming crisis of faith was this:
Do you know what that is and do you know what the significance of it is?
Well I'll tell you. It's Aidan Turner aka Poldark wearing nothing but a towel and a devil-may-care expression re mortal danger, and the significance is that it is making a staunch feminist like me have guilty sex feelings.
As you probably know it is illegal for all feminists to view men as sexual objects, and it is an even greater crime to actually, properly fancy them. When some women complained about Page Three, and then some more women complained about the Beach Body Ready adverts, their objections were overthrown in a court of law as one of them had once text their friend to say 'I really fancy my MALE next door neighbour'.
But against my greater judgement, I have found that I am a maverick and I do not abide by these rules, and yes, I, a feminist, have objectified a man.
Yes, I watched Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None over Christmas. And I was excited, because I read the book when I was younger and I was absolutely gripped, and that was down to nothing more than the exhilarating plotting and words of a lady with a cracking perm.
But when I watched the BBC adaptation, I did not expect to feel so excited. In. My. Vagina.
But before we talk about the fact that we all need to attend a UN Peace Summit to reunite relations between my conscience and my lady garden, I'll just tell you a bit about this masterpiece of literature which has sold over 100million copies.
Picture the scene: A big creepy house on a tiny island in the middle of the sea. Ten strangers are summonsed there by a mysterious figure who clearly has very persuasive letter-writing skills. The vibes aren't good, and they get significantly worse when bodies start to pile up.
Oh wait, did someone say BODIES?
Aidan Turner's body, which is very much not a corpse in the throes of rigor mortis, as well as his face, voice, and general aura made me feel deeply deeply concerned.
Because how can I, a card-carrying ball-breaking feminist harpy, criticize men for objectifying women when Aidan's surly glare is making my loins super fiery?
Isn't my objectification of this man proof that we ladies just want to have it both ways? You can't perv at our nip naps on Page Three but we can set topless Poldark with a scythe as our desktop background picture (and believe me I would, if it wasn't currently Mark Darcy wearing a Christmas jumper)?
The truth is, I was joking earlier. It is not illegal for feminists to fancy people. Many of them in fact are attracted to men, and they even do things like be kind to them or touch their penises.
Objectification is about context. It is okay for you to find someone sexually attractive, as long as you appreciate that the way they make your bits feel is only one small part of the tapestry that makes up who a human is.
Women get stroppy about being objectified because culture so often suggests that this is the only thing we have to have offer.
Aidan Turner is allowed to do so much more. He can ride a horse whilst being fit. He can swash about a sword and be a hero whilst being fit. And he can also win a war and own a mine and talk about financial stuff whilst being fit.
For so long, the rules have been that women can be fit whilst being fit, and that's about it. The thing is, I don't want to be a hypocrite, I just want everyone's wank material to have a job and a career and a political ideology as well as a bangin' bod.
The fact that Aidan Turner is the best thing my vagina has seen since the hi-tech mooncup that texts you from inside your womb area is ok. It's good to have someone arouse my pheromones. They have been dormant for a very long time.
So after questioning my very understanding of who I am, I will continue objectifying Aidan Turner. It's what Mary Wollstonecraft would have wanted.