Is it just ME?

Or does ‘bring a bikini’ strike horror into your heart?

‘BRING a bikini!’ said the invitation summoning guests to Yorkshire at the end of March after a hot tub had been installed on the patio.

‘Bring cozzies!’ said the email proposing a May day-trip to Brighton. ‘Bring trunks!’ says the message about a July barbecue. There’s an inflatable pool in the back garden and, come rain or shine, we’ll be in it with Pimm’s in hand.

A collective madness seizes us between March and September. In the national imagination, Margate becomes Malibu, Bognor is Venice Beach and the windy bays of Cornwall are recast as the promenades of Cannes.

I don’t think this lifestyle, copied from American TV shows, comes easily to the English woman.

A friend who grew up in Portugal went to the beach after school for ten months of the year. A bikini is as second skin to her as windcheaters are to us.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of my ‘bikini body’ — it’s fine. It’s just that it feels very unnatural to be outdoors in anything less than vest, shirt and cardigan.

In the June heatwave I wore linen dresses with bracelet-length sleeves and hems to the calf. Much cooler and breezier than shorts and a bikini top.

The last time I wore a bikini was three years ago. Since then I’ve had summers in Norway, Oxfordshire and, this year, Edinburgh. Or Edinbrrrr. I’ve an old Speedo swimsuit that I wear at the leisure centre but it’s now a funny shade of chlorine green.

Still, it’s safest to pack a costume of some sort if there’s a picnic and riverswim in the offing. The last time I ‘forgot’ my swimsuit, another guest suggested skinny-dipping!

As an English woman, it feels very unnatural to be outdoors in anything less than vest, shirt and cardigan