So apparently Kate Moss needs a bra (she could also do with a burger but that’s another post). The day I got my first bra, was also the day I had four teeth taken out by the orthodontist (I grew up in the country – we had to mutlti-task on the city trips). So anyway, the bra fitting involved an unsmiling grey haired Arthur Barnett lady, and very cold hands. She returned to the changing room with flesh coloured A cups, to find me slumped on the stool trying not to faint or choke on the wads of cotton wool soaking up my bloodied gums, as Mum propped me up for the sake of appearances. It was quite traumatic.

Last Sunday, in anticipation of New Job, I went here and got properly fitted for a bra. Thankfully, there was no blood, or fainting. Nor old ladies with stern faces wielding The Tape Measure of Authority. The lovely Becky guessed my size and brought me options (she would totally win that pub game, you know, the one where you guess boob sizes). And anyway it turns out I needed to be wearing like two whole cup sizes bigger (apparently 90% of people with boobs are wearing the wrong size bra).

Still, I bet most of them haven’t just moved out of the large-handful category and into the BLOODY-GREAT-MELONS category. Jesus.

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