In 17 days I will be horizontal, Aperol in hand, on Las Salinas beach in Ibiza. I will not, unlike my eight close friends, be topless. My breasts will be draped (or rather, hoisted) in expensive Lycra. At all times. 

The topless question is one that presents itself to every woman, regardless of her locale, class or physicality. For me, it’s always been patently – and contentedly – clear which side of the sun lounger I sit on. And yet, a recent holiday to Majorca brought to light an uncomfortable truth: I’m being judged for it. Just as booby sunbathers have been judged for their nakedness over the years, I am being eyed with pity and silently disenfranchised by those very same women. 

I can’t put my finger on it, but an unspoken divide the size of the Grand Canyon separates the topless and the covered. It’s them and us. Which was always fine by me. But, the concept of going topless has unexpectedly come up in conversation recently in my circle, and I’m pretty sure I detected an undercurrent of superiority among those who doth take their top off. Unintentionally, sure – but it’s there.

"I can’t put my finger on it, but an unspoken divide the size of the Grand Canyon separates the topless and the covered. It’s them and us"

This bothers me. Not least because I suspect much of it boils down to the inherent implication that I am somehow a wooly-tights-wearing prude. A snooty Brown Owl, out of touch with modernity, Euro-culture and her own sexuality.  If I were to protest at that last one, it would come across as the worst form of hyperbole. It would also make me sound pretty slutty. 

So, why am I so staunchly clothed? Well, firstly, I didn’t grow up in a naked house, which I think is rather common practice for this country (no thank you, we’re British etc). Perish the thought. I once accidentally saw my step-dad on the loo as I walked past (unforgivably, he had left the door open). I screamed blue murder. It was scarring. Things aren’t supposed to be that way. Clothes keep things civilized. We’d be animals without them. So, why is it so surprising that I should remain loyal to this view in all environments – including the beach?

Much of my repudiation may possibly stem from the fact that I do not tan – AT ALL – which renders it pretty nonsensical for me to even entertain the thought of whipping my top off. Incidentally, I find extreme forms of sunbathing (dousing oneself in oil and grilling under the sun for ten hours) exceptionally tasteless, outdated and inane. And from what I’ve seen, it tends to be the women who are dead set on turning the shade (and later in life, texture) of a Tod’s belt that go topless with military force. A family garden, a local park, its all fair game. Eurgh.

But it’s more than just tanning. I know with quite a lot of certainty that were my skin capable of going a deep Gisele chestnut colour, I still wouldn’t unleash my naked breasts in a public arena. Unless you’re Bridget Bardot, or at least a bit French, it’s just a bit… cheap. I’m of the belief that nudity shouldn’t come so easily, at least not publicly. 

And in sartorial terms, I do so enjoy a good swimwear ensemble. To my mind, women look far more soignee in a pair of bikini bottoms and a matching – or better yet, clashing – bikini top. 

I like to alternate between a fun two piece and a classic, but supremely well cut swimsuit (Calvin Klein, Zimmermann). My high-cut black one-piece from American Apparel is to me, far more stylish than a pair of naked breasts – its low cut but sporty too.  Put simply, a plain black one-piece is somewhere approaching a 90s Cindy Crawford, going topless is Penny Lancaster.

And for those of you who are already theorizing, this isn’t an arch response to some sort of bottled-up body dysmorphia or chronic self-hatred. My boobs are plentiful, sure (I’m a 34D), but they suit my frame and I’ve had them for half my life, so I’ve grown to quite like them. This isn’t about size. Friends of mine enjoy rather a larger cup than I do and unleash them with vigor. Which is all well and good for them. It’s just that in front of other people, I prefer mine to be clothed. What irritates me is the presumed haughtiness that’s steeped at my door.  

It goes without saying that it’s up to each individual what she does with her breasts, dresses them or allow them to run free and bake, but consider that, for those women who choose not to de-robe entirely on the sand, the decision is no more down to body confidence or stiffness than it is the particular day of the week it should occur on. 

If anything, it’s a question of taste. Of fashion. Of style. And my style is telling me there’s far too much pleasure in dressing than being undressed in public.