Seeing this piece in the Guardian about the apparent demise of one of the many reasons why I love the French, I was reminded of one of my mother’s favourite stories about me as a young ‘un. We were on the beach somewhere in France, and I was apparently gazing at the unending parade of nipples with mounting distaste. (How times change.) Finally, I was sufficiently moved to turn to her with a perplexed look on my face, and ask gravely, “Why can’t they put cones over the ends?”

Perhaps someone important was lying on the next towel along: