Today has involved shopping for bras, including bra fittings. God help us.
It has also involved Christmas shopping. I have done mine. This trip was to make sure the children had everything they needed, which was about as much fun as you might expect when you’ve got three children with a combined budget of about 47 pence and the noble yet entirely unrealistic wish to buy everyone they love a Ferrari.
The bra fittings could not be put off. I have been aware for some time that my girth is increasing due to me embracing my inner Nigella rather too generously and things have been getting a bit strained for a while. I was spurred on by Tilly, who confessed, earlier this week, that her bras have been held together with spit and string for the last three months and she could no longer hide the fact that she needed to do something as a matter of urgency. Three keep fit classes a week have taken their toll and she has no desire to take someone’s eye out in Zumba class.
It was brought home to me that I must act on my own behalf, when Andrea and I sloped off to the pub for lunch last week, and on walking home, were both mesmerised by the sight of a woman jogging up the road sporting the most terribly fitting bra in the universe. She was wearing a luminous yellow jersey which did not help matters. We had been talking about politics, and were quite involved in our conversation, but as the lady got nearer we both started to dry up and eventually gave up trying to speak in favour of staring at her swaying bosom in the manner of Mowgli, hypnotised by Kaa.
It could so easily have been me.
Had I not been more likely to take up speaking Serbo Croat than go jogging.
Tilly and I have turned our backs on Marks & Spencer, which I have loathed ever since a poisoned dwarf masquerading as a professional bra fitter, forcibly sold me a nursing bra that made an iron maiden seem comfortable and frog marched me to the tills to pay for it as I wept into my ever burgeoning cleavage.
Normally I would not have been so easily swayed, but at eight and a half months pregnant and entirely hormonally distrait, she saw my weakness and went for it.
Today, in the absence of a Rigby and Peller within fifty miles we embraced the lovely lady at John Lewis who was incredibly helpful, and entirely human, and gave us loads of handy bra fitting tips, none of which I will ever be able to remember in the heat of the moment, but which, at the time, seemed like magic mixed with witch craft and more than a hint of Mary Poppinsish brilliance. She was fantastic, and made what is normally a chore akin to cleaning the toilets after we’ve all been struck down with a violent stomach flu, much more palatable.
This must be why I parted with the gross national debt in exchange for a carrier bag full of bras.
Scaffolding has never been cheap.