The sun has finally made an appearance in London. I travel to work with my nose stuffed into a fat man's armpit on a daily basis, the office is an oven and I am having to suffer the sudden appearance of grey-white hairy man-toes everywhere (guys, having a pedicure does not compromise your masculinity, OK?)
I'm starting to come round to MM's way of thinking about summer. No, I don't have to run the gauntlet of sitting next to a (argghhh) model on the beach, which makes me feel reasonably fortunate in comparision, but my confidence is starting to suffer under the onslaught of young firm flesh on display. I am having a serious case of tanned-legs-and-taut-tummy envy. And what's even worse, what makes me want to weep with jealousy, are the girls prancing about in skimpy vest tops with not a hint of bra in sight - surely they can't all have had boob jobs? I don't think that mine have ever been that pert, even when I was a teenager.
The boob thing is a bit of an issue for me. I am rather unremarkably endowed in the chest department, always have been, and since breast-feeding two ravenous children they are nothing at all to write home about. So the bathing suit issue looms large.
When I was younger (pre-kids) displaying a flat chest in a bikini wasn't much of an issue. After all, when you have an enviably washboard stomach and pert buttocks, who cares? But now, with my stomach muscles on strike (and yes, I have tried sit-ups, and no, they didn't work) and my derriere resembling a three-week old windfall apple rather than a ripe peach, I wish I had the benefit of a Grand Canyon cleavage to act as a diversion.
So I guess I've got to give up the fight and accept that it's a kaftan summer for me this year.