What with it still being January and all, I’ve been going to the gym fairly regularly.
On go the three-quarter length running leggings, up goes the volume on my iPod and away go the stresses of the day.
I don’t think there’s anyone who’d think that I, while at the gym, was dressed immodestly.
Even at my most out-of-breath on the cross trainer, nobody could accuse me of classlessness.
But if I lived during the time of the Renaissance, when Michelangelo sculpted the very naked David and even grumpy Mona Lisa had an enviable cleavage, I’d have caused a scandal if I dared wear a fabric decreed by Henry VIII and then Elizabeth I as being above my status.
Oh, the horror!
Back then, women’s fashion was in its infancy as a form of expression.
Two hundred years later it had become so ridiculous that the frocks were almost transparent without a petticoat.
They were so low-cut there was a very real danger that ladies would – and did – pop out during a Pump Room dance.
And that, remember, was the very cream of society.
The type of society written about by Jane Austen, where gentlemen were not to speak to a lady who had not acknowledged them.
A time where gloves had to be worn by women in case a man wanted to kiss their hand and where a lady couldn’t dance more than three dances with a man she was not engaged to.
Society has been telling women what to do and what to wear for centuries.
Now it seems we’ve all got our bloomers in a bundle because a red-top tabloid almost stopped putting bare-breasted lovelies on its third page.
I don’t mind Page Three.
Being a topless model isn’t exactly classy, but I don’t think boobies should only be seen by chaps with binoculars who are busy twitching at wildfowl centres.
Personally I quite enjoy seeing what Natalie, 19, from Bermondsey thinks about the national deficit and discovering her opinion on whether the falling price of oil is going to harm the economy in the long run.