Gramsci sighed. The conversation had started innocently enough about the transformation of women aspiring to Higher Office - Hillary, Ségolène, GodZille. But all too soon the focus moved closer to home, to academic leaderettes washing the grey right out of their hair and trading tents for Truworths - a refashioning (so to speak) that some felt was not peculiar towomen rising through the ranks.
But the men, someone argued, merely had leather patches sewed onto the threadbare elbows of their corduroy jackets. They seldom swapped their chinos for carducci, cut their comb-overs or lost the Ackermans socks. They didn't need to.
"Of course," observed the Cow, "if female academics had the remotest intention of shaking the foundations as they claim, instead of merely pulling up the ladder behind them, they'd take a lesson or two from the students."
"Oh?" asked Gramsci. "Like what?"
The Cow chuckled, with pictures of Prof Ritalin flashing across her memory. "Never underestimate the destabilising potential of a toned tummy!"