A Potted History of My Tits

During the Great Bedroom Clearout, I found six different sizes of bra in my underwear drawers. This is especially impressive given that none of them are Ian's and I didn't really start wearing the things in earnest until I was nearly 30. No point. I was a skinny twenty-something. I used to draw two U shapes on my chest with a marker pen so people wouldn't laugh at me on topless beaches.

Approaching 30, I must have finally decided that I was ready for something more grown-up than a vest. Perhaps I ate enough one day to merit a real cup size and bought a bra to celebrate? It could simply have been a particularly chilly winter that year.


In 2002, I moved back to London, stopped smoking and began to eat properly. By the time I turned 31 that October, my old clothes didn't fit any more. Royal Mail got in touch to ask if my norks would care to have their own postcode but I declined on their behalf. I get enough junk mail as it is.


Then in October 2005, I took up Bikram yoga, a sport for masochists that beats you to death, makes your teeth sweat and causes your body to disappear in a sock-scented vapour. I loved that socky-nutsacky smell*, and the feeling of having been trampled by sweating bison. For the next few months, I went up to three times a week to inhale other people's musk in a 108°F fug while carefully sticking one leg up my nose. Half of me vanished. Boobs, begone!

*I'm joking.

Then, of course, we played What Happens When You Leave It In? and I got pregnant.


And then October 2006 came along, and I wasn't pregnant any more, but had a baby to feed.


The thing is, I can't bring myself to throw any away, especially the tiny one. What goes up must surely come down, and I live in hope that one day it will fit me again. Even if I have to roll my tits up to fit them inside.

Look at all this fruit! I'm going to be eating ever so healthily for the next day or two.