Tense, nervous, butterflies.

Not the butterflies themselves of course.  I'm assuming butterflies never actually get tense or nervous considering the fact they apparently only live for a minimal amount of time (not quite as minimal as a day though - look it up if you don't believe me).  No I am talking about myself, the building stress which is practically tangible and the fact my stomache is churning like an army of ants have moved in.   And it really doesn't matter how many times I tell myself this is not worth getting worked up about....I am worked up and will remain that way until I walk out of those exams knowing I've passed.

Potentially only nine more days to wait.

Meanwhile I have been employing even more subversive techniques to avoid actual revision, the latest venture being to try and purchase a bra.  Sounds simple to most I'm sure but let me tell you it has been anything but.   Nothing ever is.

The history.   My bust size appears to change more often than the British weather.  This is not really all that surprising considering my wardrobe contains clothing sized from ten to sixteen and generally I fluctuate my shape on a  regular basis (though honestly I think it's time I chucked the size 10's away....most of that stuff hasn't been worn since the 70's).   Anyway in some amazing twist of good fortune, this time round as I've shed a few pounds my bust has gotten bigger.  Bizarre but true and you have my assurance that no unnatural method has been employed (unless dancing naked around a totum pole seeking blessings from the God of breast tissue is considered unnatural).

I recently purchased one bra which is really comfortable and flattering and fits perfectly so decided the simplest thing to do would be to order another exactly the same, but perhaps in an alternative colour.  Unfortunately you can't order these bra's online in my size, of course (and yes I have tried absolutely every stockist possible) so unless I want to drive back to Cheshire Oaks I needed to find another option.

I visited every high street store, every supermarket, every odd bod little shop I could find and none of them stock what I need.  So in a last bid attempt to sort my support problems out I decided to try the mother of all underwear shops.....Ann Summers.  You'll remember in February I purchased a bit of a 'kit' in an effort to spice up our seriously flagging marital relationship (and when I say that yes I do mean the bedroom part) only to find on Valentines Day that Chris was suffering from a deep onset of Man Flu and wasn't up to the task.  Well I took said 'kit' back (that boat had sailed without him I'm afraid)  and therefore had a credit voucher to use.  Worth a try, even though I feel like a naughty child whenever I go anywhere near the place.

So I surruptitiously walk past the shop front three times in an attempt to assess whether there are any familar faces in the vicinity.  When I am certain that there are not I dive bomb in, straight to the rear, tell the assistant what size bra I need and set about trying a few on (without nipple holes that is).  Once again they do not have my exact size so I play about with a few alternatives but eventually realise this is futile and that I just need to find somewhere carrying more stock.   I was toying with the idea of buying one a little on the small side but then recalled the time I bought a pair of high heeled stilletto shoes in a size three because there were no fours......and the raw blistered feet I got as a result.   Blistered feet is one thing but blistered....anyway.

So I go to the till, trying to avert my eyes from the million and one rampant rabbits on display and trying even harder to shut my ears to the simulated (I hope) orgasmic sounds being broadcast on the shop's in-house radio station.   Incidentally I'm not a prude, far from it I would think, but trying to talk to the till girl over the sounds of some woman's ecstacy at the thought of a remote controlled vibrator is just a step too far surely in most people's book.  I asked her if she could check stock in Birmingham and thankfully they have my size so I am off there this afternoon to pick it up.  Hoorah.  And so the story would end well, if it ended there.

It doesn't though.  I am three quarters, nay four fifths of my way through the visit and appear to have managed to avoid any shame or embarassment and can leave with my reputation unscathed.  It is at this point that a woman decides to exit the changing room, clad only in a pair of jeans and a bra and walk to the front of the shop.  She is trying underwear on and wishes to get a different size.  Unfortunately the bra she is wearing (don't ask me why she hasn't put a top back over it, but then we are in a sex shop surrounded by every fetish imaginible so maybe the usual rules don't apply) has a tag in so when she gets near to the door the sensors detect it and bang the alarm goes off.  A massive booming wailing siren right at the precise moment I am trying to exit the shop in a similarly insconspicuous manner as I entered.  Instead I am greeted by forty six faces all turned to look from whence the noise is eminating and see me coming out.

All I can say is that if and when I finally get my hand on this illusive bra which actually fits, the cleavage better damn well be worth it!

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