Mercy. How I loved this bra.

The moment I tried it on in a Marks & Spencer store that no longer exists, I knew I was in the presence of the bra gods. My shape was transformed; slimmer, neater, faster, stronger. And no more splayed underarm uniboob for these puppies! Oh no, my breasts were facing front with just a hint of point, like dainty hounds scenting distant yet oh-so-sweet prey. I bought two in white, one in black, and even had the foresight to buy one in a slightly larger size. But youth and vanity cannot compete with time...

Fast forward eight to ten years and I still squeeze myself into the black version of these beauties. Pity me, a thirty-something 32H cramming herself into a 34E in vain attempt to create the illusion of her glory days. I can deny the quad-boob no longer. This week I've self-prescribed an intervention.

Already two fresh-faced bras have failed at the first hurdle. Not enough side support. Who am I kidding? Not enough anything. I have worn no other bra in nearly a decade. It just doesn't feel right. I am bramogomous.

Here's my plea; if anyone knows of any bra that can match the engineered magnificence of the (somewhat degrained and ratty) corsetry in that embarrassing pic up there, I will gladly gift them my firstborn. Which technically does not exist but it's the thought that counts. Help me, bra-warriors. You're my boobs' only hope...

Updated on Aug 25, 2015 Flag this

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