No I don't want to see your bottom!

Hurrah! It’s raining today, the heat wave is over! The British public will be appropriately dressed for town life and I won’t have to see white, wobbling flesh falling out of denim hot pants on the High Street.

The smallest of denim shorts are back in a BIG BOTTOMED WAY in Summer 2011. Henceforth on my afternoon stroll I was treated to the oracular spectacular of a range of milky hindquarters that appeared to have been targets at the wrong end of a driving range.

Now before you brand me anti-feminist, hear me out. I too own a pair of skimpy denim shorts and a pair of dimpled buttock - spreading down to dimpled thigh, but I am well aware of my faults and so my summer apparel has been chosen at the exact length that allows for fashion and dignity coverage. If my breasts wobble spasmodically with every step I strap them down and cover them up (see Majestically Mammaried). I employ the same philosophy with other flesh. It’s a secret long used by Hollywood stylists, beneath every red carpet derriere is a lot of gym time but also spanx and body tape holding that booty in.

If all else fails embrace leggings, they’re also back with a vengeance – much to my Husband’s delight; it reminds him of his youth back in the 80’s, a time when Casio wristwatches where cool instead of retro. Although, a cautionary tale, beware of the camel toe, we don’t want to read your lips! Moose knuckle is akin to flesh wobble – BAD.

When I think about all that flesh undulating untamed around the shopping district, the real problem is the location. Location, as ‘they’ say is everything and in this case it was the locale of the wombling thighs that caught me off guard more than the flesh itself. On a beach I am prepared for flesh in all shapes and sizes. I wear rose tinted sunglasses and have a novel to hide behind when urged to avert my gaze, but standing in the check out at Tesco’s with neon lighting emphasising each contour there’s nowhere to hide. And the same applies to men; I don’t want to see you topless in Tesco’s just because the sun is out. You may think you’re a gangster and be wearing more bling than Mr T, but put a top on will you.

I remember my great-grandfather getting quite upset about an advert featuring a young woman washing herself in the shower on T.V. It was all very tame; a hint of bare back, a flash of clavicle, but the poor man was beside himself he didn’t want this naked woman showering in his living room. Now of course, I totally understand. The next time my grandmother moans about my ripped jeans I’m going to be more empathetic – she doesn’t want to see my naked knees poking out anymore than I want to see too much milky corpulence in the supermarket.

Amazing the Victorian mores I’m acquiring with age.