Call the Fashion Police

Who on earth thought we might like to be treated to an up close and personal tour of a stranger’s armpit hair – not to mention a glimpse of nipple when they lean forward?

- Clare Mackintosh

Forget coastal rescue, the RNLI and public announcements about sunstroke; the emergency service most needed during a British summer is the fashion police. What is it about the summer season that provokes such heinous crimes against fashion?

Men and women, who for 10 months of the year dress in perfectly normal attire, lose their sartorial minds at the merest hint of warm weather. As the first daffodil pushes its way through warm soil, so Brits push their winter wardrobe to one side. Out with the subdued navy tops, the beige chinos and the tailored skirts. In with garishly patterned shirts, shapeless shorts and tropical motifs.

On a sunny day in Stow-onthe-Wold the pavements are dotted with brightly coloured tourists, their optimistic sun hats at a jaunty angle. The men wear shorts; the cargo pant pockets stuffed so fat with wallets and phones they have to turn sideways to fit through doors. Hairy white legs, almost as shocked by this newfound exposure to daylight as the rest of us are to witness it. Socks with sandals, or – horror of horrors – Crocs. Shudder.