I’m standing in the kitchen, awkwardly toeing the floor, having the sex talk with my dad (aged almost 30, and 12 years after I actually lost my virginity).

Except we’re not calling it sex, we’re calling it ‘living with someone.’ And we’re not actually talking about sex at all, but religion. More to the point, we’re talking about how I need to go to confession because next year, I’m getting married in a Catholic church and to do so, you’re supposed to go in with a freshly-cleansed soul.

I’m not against this, by any means; I’ve just avoided doing so for the last 12 years for fear of being denounced a vicious trollop and marched out.

Don’t underestimate how far my dad and I have gone to avoid this conversation. Before now, if I’d thought about having children, I’d seriously considered claiming immaculate conception. This might be one of the most painful chats we’ve had in my entire adult life, yet even through the fierce teeth-clenching, I’m still aware of how ridiculous the entire thing is.

After all, I don’t believe sex is a sin and would fiercely defend anyone who was being judged for having it. I might be Catholic, but I still feminist. If, in 2016, that’s even possible.

Things were supposed to be better than this. We have a ‘cool’ Pope now, one who uses social media. But for every time Francis has condemned homophobia, criticised the gender pay gap and graced the cover of Rolling Stone magazine (seriously, God, never take him away from us), there has been another priest comparing paedophiles to adulterous women or using an aborted foetus to make an appeal for Donald Trump.

It goes against everything I believe in. Trust me, it’s not easy claiming you’re all for women’s rights, while genuflecting to a Church that seems dead set against them. It’s frustrating and disheartening every time you hear of yet another knuckle-dragger who’s been given a platform and realise …read more