Bare necessities?; Cover up or drop out? It's a choice thousands of

Let It All Hang Out says Pennie Taylor I RECKON it is a generational thing. As a product of the seriously swinging 1970s, when liberation was the byword and bra-burning was de rigueur, it never occurred to me that I should cover my breasts on the beach.

Then, going topless was a statement of just how-far-we-had-come- baby, an all-over tan was the languid symbol of sophisticated sisterhood, demonstrating supreme self-confidence and a defiance of those pesky, patriarchal norms. Right-on women were happy to show that they felt comfortable in their own skin - no matter how imperfect it might be - and only the chronically uncool bore proof of their prudishness in the ghostly white stripes that marked where their bikini top had been.

I can't understand why some women feel at ease with their nipples concealed behind tiny triangles of lycra, yet assume a whimpering foetal position at the very thought of baring all. Honestly girls, nobody gives a damn.

Indeed, there is something peculiarly levelling about tanning topless. On my favourite beach in southwest Spain, women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and nationalities strip off and hang out, and no visible eyelid is batted. It is unlikely that anyone's body could be so off-putting that it would scare the horses that lazily graze the links, or that there might be one sunbather whose assets are so stunning that the very glimpse of them would conjure up the horny hordes.

Yet even amid this bountiful flesh-fest, there is still one who prefers to keep her top securely buckled. Maybe, come the second week, she might feel relaxed enough to undo the straps, but only while lying face down - no matter that the contortion required to turn over while maintaining her modesty is likely to attract many more titters than a naked breast ever would.

In my experience, Scots women have a particular problem with even the most moderate exposure. It seems that physical fascism has a firm grip on the national female psyche, and most don't think they measure up.

Feebly, some cite fair skin as a reason for sticking with the semmit, but high-factor sunscreen takes care of that. Push further, and they may admit that they just don't like their bodies very much and would prefer to sit huddled in their anoraks among sand dunes.

Maybe it is residual Calvinism - they secretly believe it is kinky and that if they let go, the next stop is the nudist beach. But just as marijuana isn't the gateway to heroin, topless sunbathing does not automatically lead to total exposure and the white slave trade. Personally, I would far rather hold on to my pants than join the oddballs who frequent such haunts.

To me, going topless on holiday has nothing whatsoever to do with sex, and it is a shock to realise that others may think that it might. Having attempted it in south India (where the upper arm is regarded as an erogenous zone and sleeveless T-shirts are a turn-on) I would advise caution. There, at around 5pm every day, male workers spill out of their offices and head straight for the shoreline where they literally stand over sunbathers and drool. I now understand why Indian women swim in saris.

In the hotspots of Europe, though, I have never felt threatened and it is still liberating to hang up the underwired apparatus, albeit just for a fortnight each year. Dropping out has a whole new meaning these days.

'The horror stories I've heard about burnt nipples have convinced me I'm right to cover up' I'll Always Go Undercover says Charlene Sweeney

IN Scotland we may still be experiencing four seasons in one day but the glossy mags have decided that it is now officially summer. June editions of magazines such as Elle and Glamour are choc-full of tanning products, the best waterproof make-up and the itsiest, teeny- weeniest bikinis.

Of course, if you're really liberated/brave/ 20-something/past caring then you won't need (the top half of) the latter. Because, like any modern European woman worth her sea salt, you'll be going topless.

There's a good and obvious reason for peeling off in countries like France, Spain, Greece - they're hot. Not so hot that wearing two small triangles over your nipples is likely to make you die of heat exhaustion, but - unlike Blighty - the constant sunshine in such places means that there's a chance of developing a decent tan. And there's no point in developing nasty white bits at the beginning of a holiday only to spend the rest of it trying to get rid of them. Ergo why bother donning a bikini top in the first place?

About 12 years ago, on my first "girls' holiday" in Tenerife, I decided to join in with the summer breast-fest. My two chums, seasoned visitors to the Costas, were ditching their bikini tops and I didn't want to be the odd woman out.

I remember that first morning when I let it all hang out as if it were yesterday. We were lying in the poolside area of the apartments in which we were staying. After glancing furtively around to make sure no-one was looking at me - and why should they, there were plenty of other females, many of them with lithe, nubile bodies, already topless - I wrestled free from my bikini, all the while keeping my back glued to the sun lounger, afraid to sit upright in case I attracted any unwanted attention.

It should have been the moment where I felt emancipated: no longer were my breasts sexual objects, they were simply there, a part of my body. And even if they were sexually attractive to some, that was their problem to deal with - I was simply being a modern, young woman, free to bare my bosoms when I felt like it, a beneficiary of the cultural revolution of the 1960s when women embraced the Pill and kissed goodbye to sexual double standards.

Instead I experienced only embarrassment, and a fear that the overspill from the two fried eggs splattered across my upper chest was preventing the sun's rays from tanning my arms.

Then there was the blistering heat that had me constantly desiring a cooling dip in the pool. I may have removed my top while horizontal but I was not ready to make the transition to being topless and vertical. By the time I fumbled surreptitiously with the straps and hooks on my bikini before and after each swim, I had barely seen the sun.

I stuck it out for one more day before seeking refuge once more in my top - and have never looked back since. What's more, the horror stories I've heard over the ensuing years about burnt nipples have convinced me I am right to cover up, no matter how much I fulfil the stereotype of the repressed, prudish Brit.

Last year a kind, generous friend bought me a pair of pristine, white bikini bottoms. "I bought them in the sale," she told me, "they're your size so I thought I'd just buy them for you."

"Where's the top?" I asked, looking surprised at this spontaneous - but oh so wrong - purchase.

It was then her turn to look incredulous. "I didn't think you needed one," she stuttered, leaving me the garment anyway, just in case I changed my mind.

The pants still have the price tag on.

Copyright 2003 SMG Sunday Newspapers Ltd.
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