Today

Wandering along North Street in Brighton today, I noticed a Bravissimo store. Those of us women who are well-endowed in the chest department know how difficult it is to get a good and pretty bra. And Bravissimo bras start at a D cup.

The standard measurement mechanisms don't seem to work well at the non-average ends of the scale - M&S came up with a 40 B which anyone with 1/2 an eye can see isn't right. I've assumed D cup and have gone for 38D which seemed OK, although variable.

So, thinking that Bravissimo must know their stuff, I went in and asked to be measured. They didn't use a tape; just looked at me in my bra and decided that I must be either 34E or 34F. Tried on a couple and it seems that they are right.

In My Day

I had the embarrassing misfortune to have a 36 inch bust by the time I was 11. My mother thought that it was bad for the bust to have a bra too early (I don't think she was right there), but eventually took pity on my embarrassment at school and elsewhere and took me off to Dorothy Perkins to buy some bras. Sure enough, a 36 C cup was recommended and several tried on and bought.

One bra remained on - "Can she keep it on - it's her 1st bra", said my mother. "36C and never worn a bra?" giggled the teenage shop assistant. Which added to my shame. She needed slapping, but perhaps Mamma was wise to ignore the remark and sailed out of the shop.

Bra technology was inferior in those days, and straps regularly broke and hooks got detached. So I suffered in a different way from actually wearing a bra. I envied the other, smaller girls who could buy pretty little flowery bras. It took me until I was well into my 20s to learn to be proud of what nature had decreed.

What I can't understand is why some women choose the trauma of plastic surgery to give themselves J cups, when I would have been delighted to have remained a C cup.