I don’t know what day it is.

I blame this on the purchase of a comfy bra.

I am not a woman who can swan about all day without a bra. For a start, as a woman of a certain age, I might trip over a nipple and break something.

Add in the heat, and I need a little shelf for sweat to gather or I’d look like I’d wet myself. I’m too hot and uncomfortable; I don’t need the added torture of biting bra bands and pinching wires.

So, spotting a sale, I invested in some comfy cotton bras. In lurid colours, from that place with the tights, they’re the kind of thing that leans towards a mono-boob, but oh my days, they are sooo soft. No pain. No marks or welts on tender flesh.

Not something I’d necessarily wear in public, at least not in the summer with skimpy tops, for pottering at home, they are perfection.

A little too comfy possibly?

My books need changing at the library, but that would mean putting on a proper bra.

We have tickets for an afternoon concert … but that would mean putting on a proper bra.

Calendars have been abandoned. Without the mid-afternoon spiteful squeeze of an underwire, I barely know what time it is.

A friend messaged, asking me over for a cuppa…but I’d just changed into my comfy bra and couldn’t face the thought of changing back. She wouldn’t have cared, but living rurally I’d need to hop in the car.  Filling up with petrol while modelling a giant, flattened pool-noodle across my chest was not a look I thought I could vibe.

There is no ‘lift and separate’ with a comfy bra.  I know this is a marketing ploy to make women uncomfortable in their own delicate and bruised skins. I also know that as a woman of a certain age, I have long moved past ‘lift and separate’ and nothing short of industrial scaffolding is going to create a boob-gap. I’d be content with them not grazing my belly button.

I hate bras. I know that choosing to wear something that causes me pain on a daily basis is a sign of madness. It is a hard habit to kick. Paying nearly £40 a pop for said torture devices only adds to the insanity.

And the comfy bras are so unbelievably comfy.

Which is why I don’t know what day it is.

I’ve given up leaving the house, except for early morning dog walks when no one else is around to witness my boobage.

Looking like a Les Dawson tribute, my liberation from bondage has resulted in more time reading, knitting and lying down (god, don’t tell the benefit-haters, they’ll want disability benefits to come with too-tight lingerie, to get us back to work.)

I don’t know if I can return to the pain. Still, it will soon be time for snuggly jumpers and oversized cardi’s, so I might just stay in until then.

Think of me. Swanning around all comfy and free. If you do pop round uninvited (weirdo), keep your eyes up top, and remind me what day of the week it is.

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