Mammoth milk wagons.
Having bounced along for nine weeks with my postnatal mammaries stuffed into preposterously ill-fitting under-garmentry, a trip to M&S was definitely in order. Once in a blouse, I sport the lumpy, six boobed, egg box look. Which is so 1998. I boast boobs that bulge; out from below the underwire; over the top of the cup; through the arm holes of T-shirts; there is even an occasional protrusion from my sock.
I am not gloating. My breasts are either full and HEAVY, or empty and shrivelled. Lose/lose. My lactation stations are sucked, pummelled and wrung out by my hungry daughter on a four hourly basis. She's twistin me melons man. When I add to this torture my sado-masochistic 'Wedge. Cram. Squeeze. Crush' approach to putting on a bra, it is little wonder my hooters are beginning to resemble maxed out mud flaps.
So to Marks'. Before I left the house, a pre-fit recce of the booby area had to be conducted, which meant spending forty five minutes rooting for the 'best of a tragically ill fitting bunch' bra that might qualify as being borderline fit for a stranger's visual consumption. Yet still I did not feel ready to air my embarrassingly scant laundry in public. I had visions of standing in the shop window, topless, while a greying woman milled aggressively about my chest, armed with a tape measure, judgemental expression and occasional tut.
I was pleasantly surprised. The service provided was discreet, courteous and professional. My bra fitter lady was as supportive of my desire to breast feed as the comfortably snug bra she provided me with.
And to the end game. My vital statistics. After months of cramming my antenatally assessed '38E' chest into swathes of underwire, mesh, elastic and cuppage; what is my actual bra size?
Told you. Whoppers. And my bikini top doubles up as a cracking dome tent.