My body has worked hard for me over the last six years. There are some lumps and bumps, wrinkles and scars, but frankly, I’m quite proud of them. I can’t say I don’t lament the loss of my once pert(ish) tatas though. “Why are your boobies so droopy, Mama?” asked Iole last week. “Ballooning from an A to an E three times in 5-years will do that,” I mumbled under my breath, with a curse or two about breast pumps. “Because Mama’s all out of latte,” I added. Indeed, my days of leaving the house sans brassière are over, and so should those items in my wardrobe that don’t require one be too. I tried on a long dress today, yellow like Sicilian lemons, that I used to wear bra less to parties and weddings. “You could get some of those sticky pads for your nipples,” said our nanny, Marilyn. What, the nipples that sit somewhere around my waistline? No way. I can’t be bothered with sticky tape and silicone cutlets. I need to wear a bra. Full stop. One day, I may take my friend Bianca on a trip to Panama City for cocktails and lifts, but in the meantime, I’ll trust my sturdy bra to get me through.

I’ve crossed paths with a pint sized lady with short pinkish/purple hair a few times lately. “Nice sunglasses,” she says to me. “Nice hair,” I say back. It’s actually just a front quiff that’s dyed the colour of candyfloss, the rest of her hair is silvery grey. She wears cat eye glasses, too. She’s cool. I’m pretty sure you need to be fair skinned to pull of a blush pink rinse. Or upwards of 75, when you can do whatever the hell you want. My Auntie Polyxene had a mauve bouffant, and so does Jason’s grandfather. It’s sweet and eccentric, like their very own pastel cloud.