There are people who go in for nakedness. I’m not one of them.
I know we’re all different. I know that. I know that already. So I have no need to take my kit off to prove it. And I would much rather you didn’t either, if it’s all the same to you.
I just don’t believe in it. If God had wanted us to walk around naked he wouldn’t have invented Primark.
Or, as my sister who inexplicably decided to go live in New Zealand used to say, he would have covered us all in fur.
A nice fur pelt – now you’re talking. All the lumpy bits and veiny bits and saggy bits nicely hidden by a shiny, silky coat. That’s how nakedness should look. But vulnerable human skin? I don’t think so.
Still, I’m not one to turn my back on a trend. I know all about taking your clothes off on holiday – not recently and not on top of a Malaysian mountain like backpacker Eleanor Hawkins , but I did once try topless sunbathing.
Just the once.
In Greece it was. I got tired of being the only woman on the beach wearing both halves of her bikini so I joined in with the crowd. Even had a self conscious swim.
But it made me feel like it feels in that nightmare - you know, the one where you are walking down the street and you realise that you’ve forgotten to put any clothes on except your vest. No? You haven't had that one?
Ah well. Anyway I scuttled back to my towel pronto.
Not everyone feels that way. Some are comfortable in their own skin, I understand.
There are those, for instance, who feel perfectly at ease wandering around their own home naked.
These people will walk casually from bathroom to bedroom, even venture downstairs, as nature intended. I don’t do that. I feel safer in a towel, a large one.
Well okay. I did do it once. Left the bathroom without my towel. But, as luck would have it , or rather as bad luck would have it, that was the moment my teenage son chose to appear on the landing with his teenage friend beside him.
I’ve realised, since almost two decades have now passed, that his mother probably isn’t going to report me to the police but I do understand what people mean when they speak of being haunted by incidents.
So I was never going to be one of those naturists. I mean, do they even really exist outside of BBC documentaries made in the early 1960s, showing people shopping and then playing tennis in the nuddy?
I suppose they must, yet the idea seems quaint and bizarre, all at once. Life is tough enough. Don’t make it tougher for yourself by exposing your fragile flesh to all that potential injury. And if you must, at least wear factor 50.
That girl on the Malaysian mountain top has put nakedness back on the agenda.
There hasn’t been so much talk of stripping off since that craze for streaking back in the 1970s, the one that culminated, shamefully, in a song called The Streak which the public enjoyed to such an extent that it reached number one in the charts.
I think she was misguided to take her top off for a silly photo.
I know that the pressure to use other people’s countries as a backdrop to your latest social media image is a strong one.
But I think it was a bit discourteous, or maybe I mean thuggishly rude. Especially as the guide had asked them not to.
Plus, I imagine it must have been a bit chilly, it being the top of a mountain and all. There must have been a fair old breeze whipping around ... everything.
The truth is, the only people on the planet who truly look good naked are babies – whatever Gok Wan might say.
An infant running around giddily and nakedly cherubic after a bath is a beautiful thing but the rest of us should keep our clothes on, especially on top of mountains in other people’s countries.