My wardrobe currently lies achingly forlorn and abashed by its nudity after I discarded and bagged up most of my tarnished, misshapen clothes. The woman at the charity shop raised a curt eyebrow at my faded rejects as if to say those won't be making it onto our hangers.
Anyway, refashioning ones identity is like building a new home; you have to start with the foundations first. So I've bought new hip hugging knickers, stripey socks, a navy jacket, a polka dot rain mac and a fabulous Mia Tui handbag. I've dyed the many inelegant silver strands that line my face dark blond. I then tamed my overflowing mane by having it reigned in to shoulder length. Thank you patient hairdresser.
Last week I went shopping for new tops and blouses but that was a disaster. And the reason? The Pendulati, my breasts, sat sagging miserably far below the correct eye line demanded by the garment I was trying on. Nothing looked right. Not even a basic t-shirt. Every item was humiliatingly returned to the shop assistant ...
"So you won't be purchasing anything today?"
So it was time. The Pendulati needed realignment and fast.
Now I've always been amply bosomed. This is something I've not appreciated being only 5' 3" in stature. My late grandmother once enlightened me to the perils of old age; that I would undoubtedly require re enforced scaffolding to assuredly hoick my breasts to a respectable level above the ankle line. Before Little A arrived the Pendulati weighed in at a hefty 32F. When I fell pregnant they grew like prize winning pumpkins to 32GG. Finally the Pendulati ceased their expansion at a cleavage defying 32H when breastfeeding got under swing, pardon the pun. The Pendulati had effectively colonised and claimed sovereignty over my fleshy limbs and overhangs.
So yesterday Little A, the Pendulati and I boarded a bus to the Big Brassiere Shop in Ealing. Before we left home I looked longingly at my old 32F bras in the hope that my breasts would be reunited with their former cups of residence. Not so as it transpired.
Upon arriving at the Big Brassiere Shop we were shown to a cavernous fitting room downstairs. The assistant was excellent in measuring my bust size. She even helped stuff both my breasts into the many voluminous lacy brassiere cups she proffered. Meanwhile Little A felt it her duty to hold onto my grubby old bra while the Pendulati were being rehoused. Each time the assistant disappeared for a new selection of bras, Little A and I shook our booty to the treble heavy pop classics shouting from the shop speakers. It felt like a cheeky insubordination behind the head teacher's back.
So what size were my new bras I hear you ask?
Alas, after breastfeeding, the Pendulati had only shrunk to a GG cup. I had dreamt of being a smaller size. Was an F cup or even, dare I say it, a size E too much to ask? I felt rather crest fallen. Still I ended up purchasing an assortment of very supportive bras which now finally make the Pendulati appear like they are reaching towards the heavens. Well at the very least they hang higher than my waistline.
The highlight of our adventure though was Little A's reverent observation whilst I paid for my items. She'd spotted a picture of a young brunette modelling her firm, plentiful breasts in a plunge bra and brightly commented, "that's a picture of you mummy."
|The Pendulati can breathe a sigh of relief|