Here's the first in our new series of blogs by Glasgow students.

Phoebe Inglis-Holmes is an honours year multimedia journalism student, aspiring radio presenter, music festival obsessive and green tea connoisseur.

Whilst out for dinner with my boyfriend’s parents, his mother asked him ‘are you getting more hours at work?’

When he nodded and said ‘it’s very tiring’, I deserved a standing ovation for managing to disguise the disbelieving snort into my wine glass.

I’m an ambitious girl. A diet of green tea and chocolate digestives has fuelled two jobs, internships, radio shows, essays, exams and partying for the past four years. So to me, his 25-hour week contract seems…laughable.

You see, we have the same argument every week. ‘Please hang the washing out more often,’ he’ll whinge, as I’ve collapsed on the sofa following six slogging hours of dissertation. Cries of ‘I wish you’d cook for once’are like a red flag to a bull when I’m curled up with my book after teaching surly sixth years who’ve threatened to stab me.

It’s a family thing. My saintly mother raised me single-handedly, working three jobs to keep us going. Messy bedrooms didn’t matter after a satisfying work day and a cuddle.

To me, this is normality. I’m a child of equality - I can work, play and earn as much as men, and I’ll do it all in heels bigger than the average penis. The grind is priority; housework comes once energised after a bottle of wine and Destiny’s Child CD.

Don’t think I’m denying it - I’m messy. Our wardrobe looks like it’s exploded and I never do the dishes. I can do these things comfortably - I lived alone for years and was relatively clean - but then I worked at my own pace, not when so tired that just thinking about the humus being far away in the kitchen would send me spiralling into messy tears.

But when in a relationship, I gained a ridiculous notion that you are supposed to help each other. Ha! During our ten trillionth argument about this, I proclaimed ‘just face it. You’re the housewife, I’m the trousers.’

He did not take this well. Society is still shouting that men are breadwinners, and women are babymakers.  Yet it is me flashing my debit card at every meal for two, every cinema ticket sees my tenners handed over gladly, and any adventures are booked under my name, meaning his requests for more help around the house ignite a suffragette tower of rage inside me.

He cannot see that asking me to do more around the house is a lot, whereas he’ll just be missing reading car magazines in his pants.

So girls - don’t back down. Wear those metaphorical trousers with glee. Emily Davidson did not throw herself in front of a horse for you to pay for dinners and do the chores. Remember that.