LIKE MY PURSE, I WANT TO KNOW WHERE MY BREASTS ARE AT NIGHT

WHILE the politicians bicker over Brexit, in the real world an equally heated debate has polarised the nation: the vexed question of sleeping in one’s bra.

Lorraine Kelly’s ‘confession’ seemed to cause consternation, and viewers ‘took to Twitter’ to express their shock and dismay. Some disapproved on feminist principles; others thought it rather odd; others still objected on health grounds.

Kelly pointed out simply that her bra made her feel safe. ‘I like to be held,’ she added. Cue much eye-rolling and pop-psychiatry.

The thing is, I completely get what she means. Because I too feel really weird if I don’t wear a bra. I, too, can’t possibly relax if my breasts aren’t neatly tucked away inside a Lycra mix. And I too have been known to wear a bra in bed, especially if I’m in shirt pyjamas. I’ve even worn one under my bathing costume.

It’s not that I hate my body (I do, in parts, just not those parts), it’s that I don’t possess the sort of breasts that can be trusted in the wild. No Kate Moss-style bee-stings, no pert rosebuds. Mine are rather unruly. And they can’t be trusted at night either, disappearing into my armpits or into loose folds of fabric with wanton abandon. Like my keys, phone and handbag, at night I like to know where they are.

By day, if I didn’t wear a bra they would probably trip me up. And without proper support, they give me backache. Without a bra at night, I wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep. That’s why I’ve never quite understood the feminist bra-burning thing. My bra doesn’t oppress me: it’s my salvation, my liberation. Once you find a bra that works for you — currently I am rotating a couple from M&S’s Rosie collection, and another from Panache in a 36F — you are able to relax in confidence that your breasts are in the right place, and will stay there. At the end of the day, my trusty bra is replaced by another, by which I don’t mean full-blown underwiring; just something soft and stretchy that nevertheless holds everything in place.

It’s more for comfort than anything else: there’s nothing worse than waking up in the night to find one of your breasts wrapped around the headboard. I’m joking, of course. Well, mostly.

It wasn’t always this way, of course. There was a brief moment — it couldn’t have lasted more than about half an hour — when, aged about 17, I had rather magnificent gravity-defying breasts. Sadly, like magnolia, they did not last. And, it being pre-Instagram, I forgot to take any photographs.

While other girls could get away with pretty little triangle bras with sweet ribbon straps, by the time I was in my 20s it was a full-blown over-the-shoulder boulder holder for me. Back then you couldn’t get larger sizes in pretty colours and nice fabrics: it was porridge beige or nasty shiny black Nylon.

But still that was preferable to going without. Bra-less I not only felt exposed, I also struggled to find clothes that fitted. A good bra kept everything in its place, so that buttons could do up and tops wouldn’t shift around.

After I had children and breastfeeding, the problem only got worse. Any woman who had laughed like a drain at Miranda Hart’s infamous ‘breast clap’ joke will know what I mean.

So it was that I took to wearing a bra in bed — now I couldn’t imagine going without one.