In a few weeks, I will be poolside with a lot of women I have never met. In other words, I don’t yet know what the level of competition will be: am I going to be in the average category, or will I compare really badly with the other assembled bikini bodies? Do I have to give up all carbs, as of now? Or just upgrade the bikini? There will be men on this holiday too, yes. Loads of them. But have I thought about their reaction to me in swimwear, once? As if.

Last week, we learnt (or had confirmed) that men are really quite uncritical when it comes to women’s bodies. According to tests carried out on a bunch of lusty Ozzie students, 40in hips and short legs are no obstacle to attraction. The majority of those surveyed actively preferred the 5ft 4in, size 14 Miss Averages to the Playboy centrefolds and top models. Yay! Put out the bunting! What a result for those of us who thought we had to be Lara Croft to get a look-in. But the relief was short-lived. Within minutes, we’d all forgotten about the scientifically proven evidence and were back to worrying about whether our bums look big and our thighs dimply.

The problem is twofold. In the first place, we don’t really care what men think because we don’t believe them. (Look at Brad: he said he liked the girl next door, albeit Hollywood-style, and then he went off with Lara Croft.) And, even if we did believe them, we are looking for affirmation from another, hypercritical source: women.

The fact is, women have their own separate standard for looks. We always have had. We think girls are beautiful whom men think are weird. We think clothes are fabulous that men find hilarious. We know that smudgy eyes and Balmain jackets and snakeskin heels are hot, even if men insist they prefer us in bias-cut dresses with shiny wavy hair and a pair of flip-flops. We have our own rigid definitions of sexy — Kate Moss is sexy, and if any man dares to say: “But what about the scrawny knees?” we just assume he’s insensitive to what’s what. We’ll allow Nigella, but not Sarah Beeny. We insist on Jane Birkin and Tilda Swinton. When our menfolk occasionally mutter (as they do): “I think I’d rather have Myleene in the M&S ad, given the choice,” we refuse to take them seriously. Even when it comes to mutilating our bodies to give them Barbie doll proportions, it’s hardly ever men’s preferences driving the decision. (Remember the stories of Peter Andre pleading with Jordan to lay off the operations.)

It is genuinely comforting to know that there’s one sex out there who wants us to be ourselves and not stress about perfection. It’s just a pity it’s not the one that really matters.

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