There used to be a brand of Hollywood movie where the busy, self-absorbed mother was switched into the body of their teenage child, and taught a lesson in the process. They don’t make those films anymore because any self-absorbed mother like me can inhabit the life of their child without a movie or magic: I just logged on to social media as “Harry”, not “Helen”, and said I was 15 years old.

Instantly, I was ejected from my cozy social media landscape, a throw-cushioned nook of Instagram where I am ruthlessly upsold “miracle” cream for tired eyes. Under my new login, my YouTube, TikTok and Snapchat feeds were swapped for the inside of a boy’s bedroom, the virtual walls plastered with football heroes. Was this spicy aroma of astro-boots, diesel and gaming chair masking the stink of misogyny? “Bro,” headlined a typical video, “what if our parents knew how we act at school?”