It is a story that has legs, sadly

It would seem that, on his upcoming “working” visit (as opposed to a “state” visit, which apparently requires more bling from the hosts, rather than the visitor), Donald Trump hopes to extend his stay in Britain beyond what he recently termed the “war zone” of London to take in a leisurely round of golf, in the company of an as yet unnamed “celebrity” professional at one of his Scottish fiefdoms. Haud me back.

And OK, OK – I know we shouldn’t comment adversely on people’s appearances and remark on things they might feel sensitive or self-conscious about. I KNOW. But isn’t it impossible not to think, sneakily sniggering to oneself, that President Trump’s alleged banning of our other national drink at his reputedly upmarket leisure stronghold at Turnberry might just be because he doesn’t want anything on the premises that high-earning but lowminded clients might find themselves comparing to the colour of his hair?

Tights and a mint Magnum And speaking of keeping up appearances, they’ve started already on Meghan Markle. Boy, was that a short honeymoon period. The woman’s been married all of five days and the Hyacinth Buckets of the commentariat are gleefully castigating her for a) wearing tights at all and b) wearing the wrong shade of tights. In spite of still having the transatlantic sass to describe herself on the family firm’s website as a feminist, she toddled into Prince Charles’s 70th birthday garden party on Tuesday sporting what I believe are called, in her native land, panty-hose. Hitherto, we have been treated to her bare legs, which actually made a fine change from her sister-in-law’s wellworn nude heels.

But even that was not enough to fire the ire of the 40-denier deniers. She also dared to wear pale panty-hose, presumably (I thought in my innocence, as much as I thought about it at all) to tone with an outfit variously describable as pale pink, rose-pink taupe, peach, dusky beige or ashes of roses. It was actually almost colourless but at least it had the great virtue of not emulating the Duchess of Cornwall, who looked like a mint Magnum without the camouflaging chocolate.

But poor Meghan still got it in the neck for matching her hose to her frock instead of opting for a colour closer to her own skin tone. And after all that talk of an independent woman of colour changing the face (but obviously not the legs) of royalty, she had, according to those who monitor these things, gone not so much out on a limb as over to the dark side. Except that she hadn’t. If you see what I mean.

There could be all kinds of reasons for her legwear. A nod to formality. She liked the overall look. A bit of a change. She was just in the mood. I suspect we’ll see the unadorned Markle lower limb again in the not-too-distant future and you know what? Who actually cares?

Royal symbolism takes many forms but wearing tights doesn’t transform you overnight into a dutiful little woman. It’s just wearing tights, for heaven’s sake. It may come as a deep, dark shock to some people but you can still be a feminist and wear tights.

Feminists can wear what they damn well like and not have to justify themselves to anyone. That is part of the point of being a feminist. And, as someone old enough to remember the bad old 1970s days of the aptly-named-in-the-circumstances but never-foundin-nature shade known as American Tan, all I can say is: “Gaun yersel’, Meghan.” Legend status awaits.

Picture: Getty Images. The Donald could see a can of Irn-Bru and The Donald did not like it.