In a packed room in Blackwell’s bookshop in Oxford, Hadley Freeman is doing what she does so well: roundly condemning the Daily Mail. The tone of her voice is deceptively light and playful as she mercilessly dissects the Mail’s image of the ideal woman. “If the Daily Mail had its way, all women would preferably be twenty-four, married with five children, silent, and dressed from head to toe in Boden. If you deviate from that you are a sad-sack lesbian who is doomed to a life of misery.”

Her talk is going well. Freeman is here to promote her new book, Be Awesome: Modern Life for Modern Ladies, a collection of essays which Guardian reviewer Miranda Sawyer described as a “worthy, funny addition to our new tits-n-wit-lit genre”. The book confronts the many issues a modern woman must contend with today: the toxic misogyny of the media, disappointing portrayals of women in film and books, and why we all think being in a relationship is the only true validation of happiness. 

Coming to Oxford must be a nostalgic experience for Freeman; reading English Literature at St Anne’s, she became editor of Cherwell in her final year. She then went on to work at the fashion desk at The Guardian for eight years, before becoming a full-time columnist and features writer. She has also contributed regularly to US and UK Vogue and so must have first-hand experience of the media’s unhealthy portrayal of women. She tells me she wishes it was term-time: “I always like to see the students around town.”

I’m speaking to Freeman before her talk begins. In the short time we spend chatting, it strikes me how likable she is: her answers to my questions are warm and witty, but she is also sharp and no-nonsense. Nevertheless, Freeman is surprisingly modest about her own achievements, so much so that I wonder if she should reread the chapter in her book about how to avoid what she calls ‘Self-Deprecating Tourettes’. While Freeman doesn’t do herself down unjustly, she is reluctant to admit that her book can be identified with the recently sprung genre of amusing feminist literature that has been spearheaded by the likes of Caitlin Moran (How To Be A Woman) and Tina Fey (Bossy Pants). Such women realised that comedy sometimes has the potential to convey an important point more successfully than the dry academic style that characterised earlier feminist literature such as Betty Friedan’s seminal The Feminine Mystique and Kate Millett’s Sexual Politics. Moran and similar have evolved a style that is as subversive today as Friedan and Millett’s works were to second-wave feminism; the bold, abrasive attitude that characterises such ‘funny feminism’ has become massively popular among young women of this generation.

It seems clear to me that Be Awesome is of this ilk, but Freeman does not view it as a feminist book. She points out that it’s “a bit weird how women just talking about equality and being funny about it are immediately put into some little niche or box. But it’s a box I’m very proud to be in, and a term I’m very happy to use for myself and the women I admire.” It has been suggested by reviewers that Freeman should try her hand at novel writing, but Hadley was disillusioned by fiction when, at twenty-six, she pitched an idea about a novel that ended with the female protagonist quitting her job at the Daily Mail and getting a job at a better paper: “that was a happy ending to me”. Her agent was not of the same mindset. “I remember my agent saying, ‘getting a good job is not a happy ending, Hadley, could there be a boy in the background that she likes?'” She laughs. “I have a nice agent who wouldn’t say that now.”

Freeman has high expectations of what a ‘proper’ feminist book written by her would need to contain. “It would have to include more discussion about the abortion debate, intersectionality and the 1970’s feminist movement in America. I’d definitely do a bit more about the history of feminism which I’m really interested in, whereas this just felt like I was saying things that any vaguely liberal, sensible woman thinks. I didn’t think of it as an actual political movement to complain about the Daily Mail.” But Freeman’s self-effacement cloaks many talents; reading Be Awesome it is clear that, while she might be stating the obvious when she writes about how being single or lonely is not abnormal, Freeman is doing the important job of illuminating how skewed our perceptions are of how we are supposed to appear and behave. I ask her if she thinks women are aware of this – does she see feminism in the twenty-first century progressing?

“I think women today are much more aware of feminism than they were ten years ago, they’re happy to identify with the whole thing, but I do think there’s a whole lot more misogynist crap around.” She sounds exasperated, as she does whenever we come close to the subject of tabloid misogyny and the Daily Mail or The Sun. “I think young women are under a lot more pressure than they were in the nineties, or even in the sixties. There’s more equality, you can’t be fired from your job for being a woman and abortion is still pretty much legal in most western countries, but women are basically portrayed as sexual objects and meat in the media.”

This leads me to ask her about her recent controversial article which justified why it was possible to shave your armpits and be a feminist. In Be Awesome, Freeman rightly condemns the brazilian wax for being for “people who dislike signs of female sexual maturity”. Yet isn’t shaving one’s armpits just a more accepted version of the same societal pressures? She negotiates the contradiction easily: “I do think it’s weird that they have been so normalised, but to accuse someone of not being a feminist because they get a brazilian is so missing the argument. You can have a brazilian and be a feminist, that’s fine, but you have to be aware of why you’re doing it. For me, a brazilian is just about pornography and paedophilia. But that attitude of ‘you have to be a certain way to be a feminist’ is dangerous and really undoes the feminist movement.” 

Freeman cites Nora Ephron, best known for writing romantic comedies like When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle as one of ‘the great feminists of all time.’ Her book Crazy Salad: Some Things About Women (1975), was one of the first books that got Freeman into feminism when she was in her mid-twenties. “She would write controversial essays on why she wanted to have bigger breasts, all these things I’m sure a lot of people see as anti-feminist, which is nonsense. She supported herself, she made her own money, she believed in equality. For me, that’s feminism. It’s not about whether you shave under your arms or not, it’s not about whether you wax your vagina or not.”

I suggest that the misogyny of the media is one of the most difficult challenges feminism has had to come up against, but Freeman disagrees. “The real challenge is the abortion debate as well as intersectionality: how different minority groups relate to feminism. Black women, Asian women, Spanish women, they feel that they’ve been excluded and have had different experiences.” She is happy to admit that “feminism is still mainly fronted by middle-class white women like myself”.

As she gets up to leave, I ask Freeman if she enjoyed Oxford. She grimaces. “I did it really badly. I’d been in hospital throughout my teenage years (Freeman suffered from anorexia) and I did my A-levels in a year at a crammer school. I was still basically a kid – so I just threw myself into the work. My memories of Oxford are of me in the Sheldonian obsessively trying to memorise Sir Gawain.” I tell her I will have to do this next year, and her flippancy is heartening: “I would say to all students out there, let yourself have a good time, don’t break your backs and don’t worry about firsts. It doesn’t matter. Honestly, I’ve been out of Oxford fourteen years now, and no one has ever asked me what class of degree I’ve got. You can get a 2:2!” And with that, the interview is over and she is hurried off by the events manager to go and prepare for her talk.

I watch Freeman tell her audience that if her book can stop one person from behaving as ridiculously as she did in her twenties, then that would be a justification for writing it. While it is hard to imagine Hadley Freeman ever being that ridiculous, it would seem that the message she is trying to impart is this: youthful folly is an indispensable step on the way to becoming ‘awesome’.

“This is what I live and breathe in Cumbria. It’s the most exciting part of it!” Rory Stewart MP is enthusing about localism and his job as a rural Tory backbencher. This is from a man who has been a solider, a diplomat and a Harvard professor, and founded and run a charity in Kabul. Stewart has also written two bestselling books: The Places in Between, about his walk across Afghanistan just after the fall of the Taliban, part of an 18 month, 6,000 mile trek across Asia; and The Prince of the Marshes and Other Occupational Hazards of a Year in Iraq, an account of his stint as an Iraqi provincial governor following the US invasion.

Brad Pitt has even bought the rights to a film of Stewart’s life, rumoured to be starring Orlando Bloom (although Stewart, who is having nothing to do with the script, says things have gone a bit quiet on that front recently. “Perhaps they’re waiting for a twist in the tale, or a Deus Ex Machina moment for their plot,” he says wryly.) So I am a little surprised to hear Stewart gushing about affordable housing and high-speed broadband.

When I press Stewart on how he would answer the people who say that he has taken a demotion to become a local MP he seems unsure, where before his answers were flowing. “I think the other things sound grander because they…” Stewart stumbles a little. “I don’t know why.

“Being a Harvard Professor, for example, which is what I did immediately before this, sounds grand. And a lot of my colleagues at Harvard said, ‘Oh no, don’t whatever you do become a backbencher. It’ll be humiliating.’ But actually this is… I find this much, much more intriguing. I meet a much greater variety of people. I mean my Harvard students are like Oxford students.”

Hesitant Stewart may be, yet I can’t help but believe that he is genuine. That he has decided that, for the moment at least, being an MP really is where he can make the most difference. Instead of taking a seat in the Oxford Union’s Gladstone Room, where we hurriedly conduct the interview at President’s drinks, after Stewart spoke in opposition in the 80th anniversary ‘This House Would Not Fight For Queen and Country’ debate, Stewart perches on the table. The edges of his suit jacket are frayed in places, his dark hair crumpled. Stewart seems at ease with the media (he’s made documentaries too), yet removed from your average, spin-doctored politician.

Asked why he decided to move into politics, Stewart tells me, “In Iraq and Afghanistan I saw what I thought was a fatal gap between politicians, policy-makers, the way they talked about things, and what was actually going on… They would say, ‘Every Afghan is committed to a gender-sensitive, multi-ethnic centralised state based on democracy, human rights and the rule of law.’ And there I was on the ground thinking, ‘I don’t even know how to translate that into language that this man I stayed with would understand.’”

“I became a politician because…” Stewart searches for the right words. “To try and see if it’s possible to bring a little bit of reality, a little bit of complexity, a little bit of knowledge into politics.”

Stewart is a child of the establishment, yet seems to have struggled to find a role within it that he believes is truly worthwhile. Born in Hong Kong to a diplomat father and academic mother, he was raised in Malaysia, and educated at Eton and Balliol, Oxford, where he studied history and PPE. Stewart spent his gap year in the Black Watch regiment, which he thought would be a “heroic life” but found frustrating. Next was the Foreign Office, where Stewart rose to become second secretary in Indonesia within two years, and then served in the Balkans, only to pack it all in to walk across Asia.

The Places in Between is evocative of Afghanistan’s epic, snow-covered peaks and valleys, yet the prose seems disconnected – the only emotional connection that you feel Stewart makes is with a dog who joins his walk through the mountains. “I was alone day in-day out, hour after hour, walking 9-10 hours a day, sleeping in strangers’ houses. And I think it put things in perspective,” Stewart observes.

“When I was at Oxford I very much thought that I was the centre of the universe. But when I was walking, I realised that in every village I stayed in there were men – generally men – who thought that they were the centre of the universe.”

Stewart admits that his writing was “rebelling against what I hate about travel writing, which is the sort of romantic, personal, ‘Isn’t this an amazing ancient civilisation?’” to capture the “lonely, boring, bewildering, frustrating” reality of travel. Why, I want to know, would you choose to spend almost two years of your life subjecting yourself to that?

“I was spending a lot of time in embassies in cities, and therefore very much talking to elites in urban areas,” Stewart says frankly. “What was defining the future of these countries was what was actually happening in the rural areas.” A strange mix of pragmatism and idealism seems to have motivated Stewart to both withdraw from politics and return to it.

Whilst Stewart waxes lyrical about the experience of an elected representative, he is passionate about the dangers of Western military intervention, and there is more than a hint of frustration. Stewart had argued the case for a just war during the night’s debate, so I ask him: What makes for a successful intervention?

“I think the core of it is humility. It begins with the West understanding its knowledge is limited, its power is limited, its legitimacy is limited. That we go into a situation which is intrinsically chaotic, unpredictable and uncertain.” Stewart hammers on the table to emphasise his point, “But when things go wrong, we go and get out!” He likens intervention to mountain rescue – you wouldn’t keep going in a blizzard.

On Afghanistan Stewart is bleakly pragmatic. “We’ve been there ten years. If we haven’t achieved things by now, then we’re probably not going to achieve them.” We are also far too late to intervene in Syria, and certainly can’t bring order to the “ungoverned space in Mali”.

Rory Stewart for Foreign Minister, perhaps? I press him on whether he has higher political ambitions and he, unsurprisingly, puts in “lots of qualifications”, including luck and a 10- 20 year time frame. However, Stewart’s idealism seems to have turned inwards towards Britain. He speaks enthusiastically but vaguely about localised democracy, reforming Parliament and getting people excited about politics, whilst admitting that he could not effect such apparently ambitious change from the backbenches. Will Stewart be frustrated again? Maybe this time, only time will tell.

On Wednesday night, at about 5pm, I received my first ever death threat. As my phone beeped cheerily, I snatched it up in expectation of a fun ‘ironic’ hashtag from some Twitter pal, only to read the following bizarre information from apparent bald egg @98JU98U989:

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I’m not sure what this says about me, but my only feeling was mild disappointment over a boring notification: I hadn’t gained a new addition to my swaggering collection of 130 followers, and Harry Styles hadn’t finally noticed me — 0/5 :(. Some nobody had just threatened to blow up the home of my immediate family. Yawn.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that I gave it a second thought. Reports were appearing in the nationals of bomb threats made to three female journalists, and I was surprised to see the messages were identical to mine, right down to the minute of detonation. This was classic @98JU98U989. 

Wait, it might not be a random computer? An actual person might have messaged me for a reason? … Someone thinks I’m a real feminist journalist!! What an honour! Thanks, anonymous and potentially violent tweeter. After a considerable period of gazing starry-eyed/grinning into the distance (like that bit in Mean Girls where Lindsay Lohan realises she’s been nominated for prom queen — “you mean I’m really targeted as part of a sexist hate campaign!?”), I started to think about what to do next. I had instinctively planned to ignore it, and it was only after hearing that the police were urging anyone who had received the threat to report it that I even considered it a crime at all. It was at this point that I started to feel a bit unsettled. The other women had called the police over to make sure their lives weren’t in danger, and so far I hadn’t even got off the sofa.

I decided to be a responsible adult about it, and asked my mum what to do. She told me to report it. 

A more eventful evening than usual for the Leszkiewicz household followed, the climax of which saw my mother dashing outside in her nightie to reassure three policeman that the dodgy brown wire running the perimeter of our house was not a bomb — but a dog alarm installed by my Irish auntie on her latest visit so she could contain her over-pampered long-haired collie.

The police I encountered were very sensitive and professional. They insisted on checking the house, came over well before 10:47PM, and even offered victim support. But I was repeatedly surprised by the confusion surrounding digital threats. At every stage, officers freely admitted to a real lack of understanding of online crime and the methods used to deal with it. I found myself explaining the concepts of @ usernames, account suspension, and screenshots. Almost every officer I spoke to told me they had never dealt with “something like this” before. One thing is overwhelmingly clear — no one really knows how to deal with this kind of crime.

Up until now, the much-repeated motto “don’t feed the trolls” has been the guideline for dealing with all varieties of anonymous online abuse. A kind of digital version of the “just ignore them and they’ll leave you alone” response to playground bullying (“They only want to provoke a response — don’t rise to it!”); this kind of approach is tempting because it trivialises both the sender and the threat they pose. Like playground bullies, people who send anonymous hate messages online are often immature, thoughtless,  and powerless when they come face to face with the ‘real’ world. 

But they can also be nasty little shits. The alarming  — and growing — number of users comfortable with making copious rape and death threats online, from angry misogynists to teenage fangirls, illustrates that our attempts to dismantle cyber crime by giving its perpetrators a silly name and trying to sweep them under the carpet (or bridge) isn’t working. Instead, our digital etiquette has encouraged intimidation and victim blaming that provides the perfect conditions for a lively culture of sexism, racism and homophobia. While it might be uncomfortable to take these messages seriously, and consider their motivations, we can’t continue to reinforce inequality and nurture an environment in which violent threats are normal.

My experience with online abuse was brief and inconsequential. I at no point felt genuinely fearful of @98JU98U989’s intentions to bomb me and DESTROY EVERYTHING. But I’m glad I reported it anyway. It’s very true that it’s impossible for Britain’s law enforcers to chase every abusive tweet from the four corners of the internet; but if digital threats become more clearly culturally defined as unacceptable, illegal hate speech, we can start to work towards addressing them more effectively.