I am not a naturist. The idea of revealing everything to the critical eye of a post-modernist world does not appeal. I look a great deal better with my clothes on. And that's not the only reason. Thermoregulation, modesty, good breeding and an intrinsic secretiveness all play their part.
The setting of this vignette is a small Greek island a couple of years ago. I was on holiday with my wife and we were looking for the site of an ancient Greek temple as one does. The afternoon sun blazed down. The sea was blue. The air was filled with the scent of the pine trees that occupied a rocky slope which descended to the sandy beach. We'd just shared a bottle of Retsina for lunch, accompanied by a couple of small Ouzos and a rather nice moussaka.
Our tourist map pictured the ancient temple of as something approaching the size and splendour of the Parthenon without any missing bits. I had some doubts about the existence of this temple as portrayed. My previous experiences of ancient Greek temples led me to believe it would now bear a strong resemblance to a rock garden in suburbia, but without the flowers and shrubs. Regardless of its former glory.
As we rounded a corner of the beach, we found ourselves staring at about twenty people, both men and women, not necessarily in the first flush of youth, stark naked. Some lay on the sand exposing themselves to the risks of skin cancer, telephoto lenses and third degree burns to the parts of their bodies unaccustomed to direct sunlight.
Nearby was a sign that showed two young girls playing volleyball just the way nature intended. Also on the sign were pictures of shirts and shorts with red crosses over them. However sun hats, baseball caps and sandals had green ticks.
'Let's go back,' I said quickly. 'The temple obviously isn't this way.'
'No,' said my wife studying the map with as much reverence as if it had been been drawn by Vasco de Gama himself. 'It's definitely near here.'
As we debated the matter, a large and overweight man approached. He had blond hair, blue eyes and a clipped moustache. His pendulous abdomen preserved his modesty perfectly.
'If you come here, you must take of your clothes,' he said in a German accent. I guessed he knew we were English from our conversation. He pointed meaningfully at the sign with the two girls playing volleyball.
'We're just going," I said.
'No we're not," said my wife.
'I'm not taking off my shorts and shirt for anyone,' I said.
'Don't be silly,' she said. 'We're all the same.'
'I beg to differ,' I said making a sly gesture at the fat German.
'There is a fine temple,' he said oblivious. 'It is very good.'
That settled it. My wife undressed, put her clothes in one of those multi-coloured beach bags that every English girl takes on holiday, and strided purposefully passed the German colony. No one paid her any attention. I followed, fully clothed, glowering at the sun worshippers to discourage further admonitions. Happily, my wife's Lady Godiva gesture sufficed to palliate them. The fat German remained stum.
The temple did not exist. This did not surprise me. 'I expect the krauts bombed it during the war,' I said in my best John Cleese voice.
'Ha, ha." said my wife coming upon a tiny fragment of white rock that would have fitted into one of my pockets. She prodded it with her foot. 'There it is. What did I tell you?'
'The oracle has spoken. We must be nearer Delphi than I thought. Thank goodness we didn't give up the search,' I said. 'Let's go.'
My wife took several photographs for Facebook. I took several further photographs of her standing triumphantly over the rock fragment, but with her bag strategically placed so as not to offend Facebook users.
We returned past the descendants of the men who'd bombed the temple. I believe my fully clothed body may have caused them some offence. But so long as Mark Zuckerman wasn't offended, I didn't care.