Pointy tits and bullet bras

I had an accident at Zumba the other night. There I was doing my best reggaeton moves when something sharp and pointy nearly poked my eye out.
Ouch. Shit. The wire from my decrepit bra had worked its way out and was poking up through my vest. I tell ya, it’s tough trying to dance and stuff a wire back down your top.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ hissed Ellie.
‘Loose bra wire,’ I hissed back. What did she think I was doing? Feeling myself up? In the front row of class?

So I got home and darned my bra. Yup, it really is that sad. And then, today, on Twitter @englishmum was going on about the lovely new lingerie she’d been sent by Lingerie Please - which made me kinda wistful. I’ve never really gone in for gorgeous underwear but, hmm, maybe I’m missing a trick here. Maybe this is the next step in my total body makeover.

It must be in the air as, the next thing I know, I’m talking bras again – this time with writer Pat Black on Facebook. Well, actually he was talking about stormy nights and horror movies but I misread it as ‘stormy nighties’ and so he said, ‘Stormy nighties! The nighties in Hammer Horror movies are best, I think, as there are usually pointy boobs hiding in there.’

Pointy boobs? Shit, yes. And it got me thinking, why were boobs so damn pointy back in the day? It can’t have been that the boobs themselves were more triangular, so it had to be the bras. But how, and why? So I did what I usually do when I'm in doubt about something: I asked on Twitter. And was inundated within seconds.

@VincentAbnett: Circle stitched bras (said firmly and decisively)
@Zoe_Lynch: now if my grandma were alive she would tell u – she owned a Spirella dealership
@Spritzdeko: OMG ROFPMSL my mum, god bless her, was one of the pointy tit brigade.

Some of them obviously gave it practical consideration.
@Whyjay99: Fabric used? With less stretchy fabric the cups would have been made of segments sewn together.
@TABITarot: maybe they couldn’t sew round seams easily on the machines.

But not all.
@Fordkantaford1: Probably to cover up any sign of an erect nipple...  (yeah, right - incoming sexbot alert)

And even Ali had a rethink too.
@TABITarot: Pointy ensures maximum frontage.

I was then directed to this very informative page .....

Seems we’d been talking about ‘bullet bras’.  As the site explained: “The bullet bra is a vintage hallmark. It defined the silhouette of an era and represents a golden moment in American fashion when exaggerated femininity reigned supreme and breasts defied the laws of gravity.”

Okaaay. But it’s one thing wearing pointy bras if you’re a pert A cup; quite something else if you’re, let’s say, more amply endowed. If I wore a bullet bra I’d need an entire row to myself at Zumba or I’d be giving black eyes left, right and centre.

Then I remembered. About fifteen years ago my best mate gave me a Rigby and Peller voucher. I never quite worked up the nerve to go in and get fitted so it’s still sitting, quietly, in my desk drawer. Should I? Mind you, with inflation, it’s probably only one cup’s worth nowadays. Ah well, I’ll just have to enter English Mum’s competition to win a Lingerie Please voucher instead...you can too....just click here. 

Benighted blog

Have you ever had the feeling that life really isn’t playing the game? Here I sit, looking out the window and what do I see? A large rusty radiator propped against the wall; a magnolia blighted by frost after a mere two days of glory; a camellia ditto and a large plump rat jauntily munching on the bird nuts. My feet are freezing cold, my fingers can barely type and the electric fan heater is giving off a strong smell of cat pee. As if that weren’t bad enough, I did the most stupid thing ever this morning. Glutton for punishment, I got on the scales. For months I’ve been comforted by the fact that I had absolutely no idea how much I weighed, as the only scales we have measure in kilos and I have never been arsed to get my head around metric. Then things started getting tight, very tight. The jeans that had always been a bit baggy around the thigh suddenly started hugging in far too intimate a manner. My bra – for Pete’s sake – started pinching and if I’m oozing out of an H cup, what hope is there? So, feeling extremely brave, I borrowed a pair of real scales, in stones and pounds and lumbered on. I mean, how much weight can one put on in a mere four months? Oh. My. God. How did that happen? I knew I was getting porky but I had no idea I had put on a stone since I last looked. I am nearly as large as I was when I was pregnant – only now the rampaging wrinkles will stop anyone making of asking ‘When’s it due’.

Nothing else for it. Went to the kitchen and baked up a batch of triple choc chip cookies and ate about six in one sitting. Although the prospect of summer seems unlikely, if it ever does come I shall be the sad woman in the vast kaftan. Or, better still, a burqa. I think I have just given up. I can’t even be bothered to paint my nails. My toenails are so long they’re starting to snag on my socks (Tights? Stockings? Don’t be daft – wearing skirts takes FAR too much effort). There isn’t a sharp razorblade in the house (maybe Adrian has taken to hiding them out of concern for my mood) so I have a thick shagpile of hair in all the places women are supposed to keep smooth and nude. In fact, if I ever do get around to doing something about it, I reckon I’ll have to go to a dog groomer and get myself stripped.

If my body is no longer a temple, my house is a tip. When the dust gets to a full inch thick, there really is nothing much you can do, other than stick your finger in and prod gloomy pictures of hollow-eyed people in it. I am deeply embarrassed to say my house is, let’s not mince words, a pit of filth. Yes, I KNOW we have builders in and missing floorboards and dangling electrics and free-standing plumbing (including half the radiators in the garden providing a gym for the rats – who, I notice bitterly, are in much better shape than I am). But really there is no excuse. I have become a slattern and a slob.

So slatternly, in fact, that I haven’t ever got around to doing my 7 weird facts. So, better late than never, here they are. Who knows, this burst of activity might spur me into doing something else. Like bake up a rhubarb polenta cake maybe.

7 things you might not know about me.

1. I used to make jewellery – beaded bracelets and wild earrings.
2. I was once arrested in Richmond Park on three counts of reckless riding (but got off!).
3. I have taken courses in past life regression and SHEN therapy, but have never practiced.
4. I’ve done the Ouija Board and scared myself witless when somebody WAS there!
5. I have always wanted a pet mongoose.
6. My favourite scents are amber, neroli and jasmine.
7. I have never been a bridesmaid (and, to be honest, never thought I’d be a bride).

I’m a lousy tagger and tagee so shall leave this to float in the ether….think everyone has done it anyhow…. Now, after this little burst of activity, think I’ll go and stare out the window a bit. Or think up a cunning plan to avoid the mother who’s coming to pick up James actually seeing how bad the house is. Perhaps we’ll sit, nonchalantly on the steps, pretending to be cloud-spotting or, hell, anything really that doesn’t require too much effort.