Perfect ‘bikini body’ — what a load of bolleaux

IT’S just days away from our beach holiday — the one where I will drive 800 miles to a campsite in the south of France with two kids in the back chorusing “are we there yet” — but all I keep hearing about is how I should be worried about my “bikini body”.

Forget getting lost in France with stuttering schoolgirl French, or trying to remember to drive on whichever side of the road that my brain isn’t used to, or hoping my new car, which is actually the same age as my kids, doesn’t break down somewhere far away in 40 degree heat, or that the sat nav starts talking to me in a foreign language, or there is a traffic jam from Le Havre to Toulouse.

No. As a woman, I am instead supposed to be preoccupied with “problems” like hairy legs, bikini line deforestation, armpit stubble, and general appearance-based imperfections. Like scaly feet, dry skin, and untoned body parts that have not seen the light of day — any light, any day — for a very long time. From my uncoiffed head to my unpedicured toes, by typing “bikini body” into Google, I am forcefully reminded that (a) it is essential for any beach holiday to possess such a thing and (b) the one I possess in reality does not match the criteria.