It’s been on my mind for a while now, this whole nudist thing. I mean, do we really need clothes? Really?
Ever since becoming a mum I’ve been veering more and more towards the No Clothes Camp. First of all, my favourite jeans refused to stretch with my newly wobbly belly. Then my tops refused to shrink with my newly shrivelled mammary glands. Then Every. Single. Pair of socks I owned got up and did a disappearing act.
So I’ve been spending my days since June 2010 dressed in a mixture of clothes borrowed from my sister and my husband, with the odd Primarni purchase thrown in for good measure. And no socks.
And it takes so bloomin’ long to get dressed doesn’t it? Especially in the dark when you have nothing for company but the loud percussion provided by your snoring husband’s wind orchestra. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve wandered out of the house in the morning dressed in a fetching ensemble of milk splattered pyjama top and holey leggings, simply because it was all I could find in the pitch black.
Then you’ve got the whole getting the child dressed in the morning thing. If we were to become nudists, the Battle of the Tights would be forgotten. A peace treaty could be signed to signal the end of wrestling matches over jumpers. Bliss.
Can you imagine a world where you only had to get up and make a cup of tea in the morning before leaving the house? A world with no daily choosing of outfits? A world with no hide and seek games to persuade reluctant children into clothes?
I can just see us now – a family of three, wandering about Berkshire free as the day we were born, with nothing to cover us but a content smile (and maybe a pair of nipple warmers in the current climate).
Lateness would be a thing of the past. We’d be on time, every time.
Punctual. Happy. At peace. What’s not to love about being a nudist?
Well I suppose the heating bills could be a bit pricey. And there’d be nowhere for the cellulite to hide…
Maybe not then.