Is it just ME?

Or are you ditching your bra for good?!

I DON’T know about you, but I’ve found lockdown liberating. In this house, with nobody to impress, the prisoners have escaped the confinement of their padded cells and have tasted freedom.

Not since the girls were mere rosebuds on the otherwise barren terrain of my teenage chest, needing endless wads of tissues stuffed in the cup of the 30AA triangles of lace to announce their existence, have they known so much breathing space.

Admittedly, they are all grown up now, with the tendency to block out the sun when hoisted in their double Ds, but, finally, they are out and proud. Unfettered by heavy duty elastine, they tend to loll around a bit.

I am not going back to the beige, nude bras; the push ups; the minimisers; the balconies, the prickly froth and scratchy ribbon, or the underwire that leaves you with a welt round your midriff like a furrowed field.

Nor the cups, whose seams leave imprints on your breasts so it looks like you are still wearing the darn things when you take them off at no-bra o’clock. Now, every day is going to be no-bra o’clock.

Working from home on a Zoom call does not provide enough screen definition to worry about a potentially offensive tell-tale outline.

Nobody can see beyond your shoulders. Welcome to droopy town. If only the women’s lib movement had stuck to their guns about bra burning.

Turns out the only support I need is someone to take the bins out. My generously matronly bosoms are not going back in the harness. No way. Never.

For exercise ( hollow laugh), I have flattening Lycra vests, but otherwise, watch me bounce through this pandemic and into the future.

Turns out the only support I need is someone to take the bins out