A bit of a nasty shock today. I’m even more absent-minded than I thought. Bit embarrassing, really.
You know how you have best bras, not-so-best bras, and downright scruffy bras? Downright scruffy bras tend to be former best bras that were so comfortable you wore them to bits and still can’t bear to get rid of them. And, obviously, as soon as you discover the perfect bra, the manufacturer stops making it so you can never replace it.
Well, I have a bra drawer just like everyone else. And I’m including the gentlemen in this because we mustn’t make assumptions these days, so keep up, guys.
I have sports bras – almost unused. Best bras – keeping for a special occasion, hence almost unused. Day-to day bras – like me, comfortable and slightly past their best. And finally, the real dross which should have been chucked out long ago, but sentiment and loyalty prevailed. Anyway, that was my bra drawer.
They’ve gone. All of them.
Contents of bra drawer: one sock. I can’t tell you how alarming it is to whip open your bra drawer and find only a solitary sock.
‘Oh God,’ I hear you say. ‘She’s finally toppled over the edge. Cancel all the pre-orders and pretend we’ve never heard of her.’
I will admit, I leaped back in alarm. Not flat-out panic because I had someone in my flat testing the alarm system and I didn’t want to worry them with undue anxiety. There had already been mutterings about my looping the alarm cords out of the way because I worry I’ll set them off accidentally. (I was going to say unnecessarily but I can’t spell it.) And then there had been the famous occasion when I mistook the button on the bath for the jacuzzi thing and a voice boomed through the wall commanding me to state the nature of the medical emergency and I nearly drowned.
In an effort to solve the puzzle, I mentally retraced my movements over the past twenty-four hours. I’m a bit stuck on the plot in the next St Mary’s story. I’ve been wandering around talking to myself, scribbling on bits of paper, throwing them across the room and clutching at my hair in a manner that makes Boris Johnson look like an amateur. And getting nowhere. So I thought I’d have a bit of a declutter. Sort of symbolic, don’t you think? And I’ve done my usual trick. This happens to me every time. Picture, if you will, two piles on the bed.
Pile One – the Do Not Throw Away Whatever You Do pile.
Pile Two – the This Is All Rubbish And Should Go Straight In The Bin pile
Guess which pile I chucked away. No prizes for the correct answer before anyone gets excited.
I’ve done this before. I did it when I was in the RAF and had to explain what happened to my greatcoat. I don’t think the RAF quite believed me. Especially after the trauma of the six-foot panda security alert and I had to do the bravely smiling through the tears thing before they finally ticked my chit and let me go. And now I’ve done it again. I’ve chucked away the wrong bloody pile. I must have been so busy trying to sort out my plot that I wasn’t concentrating properly and threw out the wrong pile
I know where they are. The bras, I mean, not the RAF. They’re not so much thrown away as donated. I chucked them in the Support the Women in Senegal bin in M&S yesterday. I remember doing it. The practically filled the bin. In fact, I think one or two of them tried to climb out again.
I suppose I could say they’ve gone to a good home. In fact, probably there’s probably an entire Senegalese village living inside the orange and green sports bra. The one with the adjustable straps and by now, probably, a brand-new irrigation system and freshly-dug well.
Obviously, I can’t go and ask for them back – I don’t think that’s how the system works so I’ll just have to go shopping again. I swear – this is how I lost the twenty thousand words on the Princes in the Tower. Why do I never learn?
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