In Good Company: "We Don't Say Nude...''
...I imagined undressed holidays would be restful. Surely anything more energetic than walking would put either sex in a flap, but no, one voluptuous foursome treated us to a bouncy game of tennis. All they wore was a serious expression...
Some years ago Enid Blackburn found herself musing on the bare facts of life.
Through our kitchen window I can see a plump little robin doing a first class picketing job on the bird table. Fighting off all the timid sparrows that have to be content with any crumb old greedy guts accidentally drops.
This weather put paid to my usual Saturday shopping trip. ‘Only fools go out in this lot,’ a passing Balaclava warned as I cleared our path. So, instead, I splashed my £1 bus fare on half a pound of chocolates, added a bottle of my favourite wine and built up the fire.
Munching mis-shapes and sipping tipple could have proved a satisfying substitute if it hadn’t been accompanied by husband’s excruciatingly boring TV football match.
Holiday brochures bring a spurt of sunny relief on these occasions. One resort praying for a long, hot summer must be Bridlington. If permission is granted this bracing haven is about to cash in on the ‘cast off clothing’ urge. Egged on no doubt by the recent television programme which displayed the bare facts concerning naturist’s camps on the Continent, they are planning a special cove for the uninhibited.
Bridlington, the home of salty-faced fishermen and the Yorkshire Belle could be in for a change of scene. With boatloads of naked bodies rowing all over the horizon, it could look more like ‘Sanders of the River.’
‘We don’t say nude, it rhymes with lewd, rude and crude, said a saggy-chested matron, who faced the cameras without a twitch, after being filmed taking a naked stroll around a supermarket.
A surprising element of the film was the amiable way that children accepted family nudity, not so much as a giggle. Yet whenever I bring out my one piece swimsuit there’s an anguished plea of: ‘Oh no! Mum, don’t,’ as if I was about to inflict some terrible torture.
I imagined undressed holidays would be restful. Surely anything more energetic than walking would put either sex in a flap, but no, one voluptuous foursome treated us to a bouncy game of tennis. All they wore was a serious expression.
No one mentioned problems, but early morning bacon frying must be a hazard. Sitting around unprotected by underwear seems less than hygienic to me. Wooden seats could make quite an impression on the back view, as skin is not crease-resistant.
Naturally, packing is no problem, just a change of fig leaf for the special occasion – or if you were Bridlington bound perhaps a bush would be more suitable. Those East winds can be a scourge even when you’re fully zipped up.
I suppose upbringing governs our modesty. ‘They ought to be locked up,’ was the adult way of looking at nudity in my youth. I admit I prefer to present a firm, controlled covered up look to the world. Although I get some strange ideas, I have never had the desire to expose myself to strangers – even on holiday.
The delightfully young 95-year-old Commissioner Catherine Branwell Booth said to Mike Parkinson: ‘It doesn’t matter how much your knees tremble, as long as it doesn’t show.’ These were her father’s words, which helped to overcome her shyness. How true, how true . . .
