As with so many things in life, the blame must surely lie with The Moss. Glastonbury 2005, you may recall, saw a straggle-haired Kate cavorting through the mud in hotpants and yards of naked thigh. It seemed then, in an age of brass-buttoned military jackets, skinny grey jeans and flouncy boho, terribly novel and awfully daring.
This Glastonbury, while there were a few discernible trends - shouty T-shirts, enormous fluorescent plastic sunglasses, neckscarves and hairbands worn in the manner of an Indian brave (thank you, Ms Peaches Geldof) - the biggest craze was surely an attempt to replicate that Moss-esque manoeuvre; eensy shorts and minuscule frocks abounded, and with them acres and acres of thigh.
These were not so much raunchy thighs as legs that smacked of rude health and weekends camping in the Yorkshire Dales. These were thighs that drank ginger beer. Worn with long socks pulled up high to rest slightly above the tops of wellies, and a demure, rainproof top, the ensemble took on a rather wholesome air.
For the most part, the bare-legged look proved successful - that glimpse of flesh between wellington boot and poncho hem proved supremely heartening amid the muddy gloom and sulky skies. But there were grave errors, too - the men, for the most part, stuck to half-hearted boy shorts that allowed a mere couple of inches of pallid, hairy calf, while the woman who chose to wear chaps and knickers should really think long and hard next time.
Glastonbury's favoured erogenous zone was actually rather sensible - and had much to commend it compared with bare midriffs and cleavage, which are difficult to work while sporting a cagoule. Furthermore. bare legs triumph when it comes to comfort in this rain-sodden climate: the feel of damp skin is eminently preferable to the chafe of soggy denim, and when worst comes to worst, remember this mantra: mud is easier to rinse off bare legs than it is to scrub off a maxi-dress.
