Nobody's perfect...

I am 49. At the age of 10 the local farmer's dog attacked me, biting my arm and chest. Aged 12, my brother split my lip by throwing an ashtray at me because I told him the score to a football match he was looking forward to watching. At 15 I found out I was diabetic and began taking insulin. Aged 17 I fell off the front of a moving land rover and dislocated my right hip. At 30 I had a fit because of low blood sugars and needed stitches in my head. Aged 34 I broke a rib in an argument and at 43 I fractured a finger in another argument. At 45 I broke my ankle in Rome during another fit caused by low blood sugars. Aged 46 I had my right wrist operated on to relieve carpel tunnel syndrome. At 47 I broke my scaphoid bone in my right wrist after I went over the handlebars of my bike and I also had some cosmetic dental work to correct a crooked and gappy smile.

Nobody's perfect but we strive to maintain ourselves after the barrel of shite life throws at us. Today I saw a man on the nudist beach with only one leg. He had a prosthetic lower right leg. He was German. I know this because I overheard him talking. Later I saw a woman on the nudist beach (again, German) who'd had a mastectomy. I take my hat off (we're I wearing one) to both these individuals. It can't be easy being that honest; with others and with yourself.

Some people think that nudism is about showing off the perfect body. I've heard comments before (usually from the prudish Brits) such as, "How can she, looking like that!" Anyone who has ever set foot onto a nudist beach will know that this is not true. The Germans seem to manage this body honesty better than most nations - perhaps a bit of a surprise, given their recent history.

Body fascism may well have reached a crude and vicious pinnacle under the Third Reich but, in my opinion, it has been honed into a much finer and subtler tool under post war western consumerism. The media has banned images of imperfection. Growing older is no longer acceptable, if growing older means growing more imperfect.

Time was when we proudly displayed our scars; like trophies - a testament to our age and experience. Nowadays, it seems there is no greater crime than reminding those around us of our mortality. Wrinkles are a heinous crime rather than proof of life's experiences.

Life scars us; from the severing of the umbilical cord onwards, we become increasingly imperfect with every day that passes. And surely, it is these imperfections that we should value and hold aloft rather than that Peter Pan perfection that the media sells us.

Tomorrow we'll look at mental and emotional scars...