Kate, keep it simple ...

I EXPOSE myself in public all the time. It comes with the territory. I've been doing it since around aged 15, when my English teacher, darling Mrs Peltason, first decided that while I couldn't run, I could compose a decent sentence, at least.

That's what we do, the media. We write it, you read it (and believe it most of the time, which is often unfortunate) and everybody knows where everybody else stands.

Same goes for prostitutes, politicians and aristocrats. If you're going to swim with the sharks, you may get nipped.

These industries are no pedicure in the park ... If you want to glide through life like a normal woman, wearing killer Jimmy Choos, then become a telesales assistant or work in radio under a false name.

Which is why, as much as I want to support her as a girlfriend, I am battling to dredge up a sense of moral outrage, sympathy or nose-in-the-air disgust at the brouhaha over Kate Middleton's boobs.

The newest member of the British royal household was always going to be a target and so far, so good. Nobody faults her locks, her looks or her luscious taste in men. And now, we can officially confirm her bra size too.

Stop right there, ye of little faith and die-hard fans of the monarchy. I'm not happy that some eager shutterbug snapped the girl naked. Since we live in a post-Victorian era of "cover it up and keep 'em guessing" mores and codes, I get that we deserve privacy – yes, even those of us with a gazillion pounds in the bank and not one, but six, personal stylists.

The thing is, though, that the world at large is expected to be in mourning for this most arbitrary event. And I have a sneaky feeling this was what they – whoever "they" are – wanted all along.

Some analysts believe poor Kate's advisors deliberately led her down the garden path and onto an exposed villa in France in order to get some sort of media coverage that might be used as "evidence" against her should things go south, marriage-wise; while others claim that the royal breast fiasco was a lame attempt at diverting public attention from more pressing matters, like the horrible military weapons being thrown about by the British military.

As someone gamely pointed out recently, almost everybody in Britain is on public display now anyway, thanks to thousands of CCTV cameras oogling their every move.

And the fact that the British press won't touch the photos, is also worrying. They're not closing their eyes and telling her to put on some clothes because they care; but rather because they're scared.

It's quite simple. If you're a royal, don't take off your bikini top during daylight hours. Or outside. Or anywhere, really, that isn't barred by a burly bouncer.

We all have jobs. Kate's is to keep her clothes on and mine is, it seems, to write about breasts. My husband will be pleased.