Bra Story

July 21, 2015

No other part of my wardrobe tells the story of the last decade quite like my underwear drawer does. Delicate Eres bras and tiny, frilly knickers sit neatly among the piles of well-worn nursing bras and cotton granny pants.  Yesterday, I tried on a fabulous Mara Hoffman cream linen maxi-gown with an embroidered rainbow of colour across the chest that reminded me of a Delaunay painting. “But what does one wear underneath,” I asked the 20-something-year-young shop girl, while gesturing to the gaping arm holes, cut deep enough to expose the brazier and beyond. She suggested something slinky and sheer to which I scoffed, “I’ve had three babies, my boobs wobble like blancmanges –– thank-you, but I don’t do slinky.” In truth, her suggestion was a lovely one; a pretty, wisp of a bra would be perfect under that dress. It’s just that these days, I prefer undergarments with purpose. Give me a well-upholstered bra and responsible pants, sil- vous-plait. And give me a needle and thread, so I can sew up the arm holes on that (otherwise) dream dress.




1 comment

  • b.

    reminds of when sophie tells me my boobs look like sweet potatoes, and i laugh… and then tell her to go away.

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