It's winter, girls - so please put those naked, fake-tan thighs away

WAS it you I saw? Fair-haired, thirtysomething woman, standing on the westbound platform of Edinburgh Haymarket station, at about 4:30 pm last Friday? The already sub-zero temperature was plummeting towards evening and most of us were swathed in wool and stamping our feet to avoid frostbite, but not you.

Granted, you were wearing a blue business suit, but not much else. From the mid-thigh upwards, you looked like the sort of woman who leans across boardroom tables in TV dramas, banging your fist and yelling: "Damn your joined-up strategy! We’ve got to think outside the box!" Unfortunately, from the mid-thigh down to the stiletto sandals, there was nothing more than bare leg. None too youthful, and puckering gently in the frosty air. Oh, I could see you’d lathered yourself in fake-tan, but that’s no defence against the Scottish winter, sweetheart. My male travelling companion was equally amazed. "Are we in a Tolerance Zone?" he asked.

Then it happened again. Was it you I saw, walking past the new cinema at Edinburgh’s Greenside, on Saturday lunchtime? Twentysomething girl, sensible coat and black, knee-length boots; but between the clothing and the footwear stretched two exposed expanses of naked, bluish, mottled thigh, both sporting an identical blob of knee, bobbing up and down with every step, like bits of loose dough trying to escape out the top of each boot.

Girls, girls, what are you doing? We’re in Scotland and the weather is freezing, but wherever I look, there always seems to be at least one of us who thinks she’s in Marbella. The trouble is, it’s always the one who has thighs like lumps of ripe Dolcelatte and has mistaken her boob tube for a skirt. This might sound harsh, but listen up, sisters: the men don’t dare tell you this. Privately, they think you look as sexually alluring as a dragged-up Dale Winton dressed as Babs Windsor, pushing a pram through a clap clinic. But if they told you this, you’d probably sue them for psychological assault. So take it from me: it’s too cold and it’s too soon. And your legs aren’t good enough.

This sudden rash - and yes, occasionally there really is a rash - of excruciatingly unseemly flesh-baring isn’t unique to 2003, but it does seem worse this year. At first, I put it down to the imminent arrival of London Fashion Week. As Billy Connolly so wisely said, there’s no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing, so maybe the good-time girls of Scotland have been taking too much notice of the runway models lately. However, even the most casual observer of the fashion world can see that there’s a significant difference between wandering along the centrally-heated catwalk in a scrap of chiffon, idly watching your nipple slip out to the delight of watching millions, and struggling against a Force 10 February gale on Princes Street, dressed only in your best Top Shop polyester-viscose and a pair of strappy mules.

Besides, the shows in England ought to be called London Fashion Freak, because they never show us anything we would ever actually want to wear. It’s not about dressing women; it’s a circus, a panto, an art show - it’s what Tracy Emin would have been doing if she was pretty or could sew.

So, I mused, perhaps the near-naked women of Edinburgh are protesting about something? Perhaps they are showing solidarity with the nude PETA demonstrators in Glasgow last week, or even baring their varicose veins for peace?

What’s more likely is that they’ve heard our troops are being sent to the Gulf with boots that melt and no desert uniforms, so they decided to dress in a way that would be appropriate in a Baghdad brothel, to make the soldiers feel better. No doubt our lads will be cheered up by this and so won’t care so much when they have to go into battle kitted out as chefs, policemen, Batman, Robin, or whatever other outfits get foisted on them. Either that, or the girls gave their nylons to tank commanders for emergency fan-belt repair. If I think that, I might feel a bit better.

Ladies - if I may call you that - please, put it away. Think - no man would ever wander about half-naked at this time of year, would he? And if knowing that the difference between trailer-trash and taste is a mere 15 deniers doesn’t deter you, well, the word from London is that leg-warmers are going to be huge this year.