"YOU should get some shorts," a friend of mine pointed out while we entertained four children on what was probably the hottest day of the year so far.

"I know," I replied, as I hitched up my long skirt -- not unlike those worn in the days when people changed in special caravans pulled across the beach by horses.

I then pointed out that, unlike her, I didn't go to the gym every week, I hadn't just spent a fortnight sunning myself in the Mediterranean and, as a result, I didn't have legs I wanted to show off to the general public.

Women discuss things like this.

We are self-conscious about our bodies and often fail to make the most of the best bits in order to hide the parts we hate (which, if you're over 40, is around 99 per cent of surface area. My eyes are okay, I suppose, in certain light conditions).

Men, particularly middle-aged men, are not like this. I could be wrong -- after all, I'm not male and could never hope to really know them as a species. But body-wise, most blokes over 40 don't appear to care about their physiques.

My husband tells me I'm putting on weight and I go away and fret. I tell him not to finish the children's left-over pizzas because his T-shirts don't fit any more and he shrugs his shoulders while polishing off their uneaten chips as well.

He just isn't bothered. So what if it looks like he bought his extra-large T-shirts at Mothercare? So what if he can't fit into the jeans he thought were too baggy a year ago? Water off a duck's back is the phrase that springs to mind.

Like women, men are getting bigger. Over the past 30 years their hip measurements have grown by an average of two inches. Their backsides, hips and thighs are also larger.

Yet you never hear them swapping tales of woe while pulling up their T-shirts to reveal unsightly over-hangs. Nor, when shopping, do they appear interested in seeking out low fat products. You don't see men scrutinising labels. I'll bring back all sorts of foods with things like "Be Good to Yourself" and "Shapers" emblazoned across the front.

My husband will bring home steak, thick, creamy sauces and calorie-laden desserts, with names like Death by Chocolate. We rarely have cake in the house, but when we do I have to ration him like a child.

"No, you've had one slice. It's going back in the tin," I will say. "I know I need to lose weight, and, although I laugh it off, I do get a little depressed when people ask me "When's it due?" It's like the first time I saw myself on video tape -- I was horrified.

Yet my husband, who I reckon has more than doubled in size since we met, doesn't bat an eyelid. He's perfectly happy to stand like a Michelin man in the local swimming baths, next to a bronzed, life-guard type. In the same position, next to a bikini-clad Lara Croft type, I'd head for the deep end faster than a diving bird. Friends say the same. Their men don't seem worried.

A recent survey revealed that one in 10 men is too embarrassed to get undressed in front of his partner. I can knock that theory on the head. As far as I can gather, from my circle of friends, most blokes feel perfectly comfortable stepping out of the shower and parading about in front of the entire family -- beer belly, take-away thighs and the rest.

So, when we head for Whitby for our annual holiday, I will be taking the usual array of beach wear -- baggy tops, ankle-length skirts and outsize cardigans. My husband, on the other hand, will be wowing the female population in a pair of Speedos. (No, he's not that blatant, but he will be sporting appropriate swim wear).

I'm roping in my friend as personal trainer and hope that by next summer I'll be in a position to wear shorts on the beach. Bermudas, of course.