I have never been very good at bras… I’ve never had big knockers so just never really felt the need to hoist them into an “over the shoulder boulder holder” on a daily basis. I have always quite often just done without. They dig in uncomfortably. They don’t fit quite right. They’re expensive!
But now, being as lopsided as I am, I kinda feel like I need some support. One boob moves as I stride, the other resolutely stays put, strapped to my chest like a rock. There’s also an irritating lump on my rib cage, where they could stick a needle in to inject more saline should I want to be a couple of cup sizes larger.
So I have been looking for something comfortable to contain my puppies (the boob and the foob), that’s pretty and ladylike and doesn’t cost the earth. The search is not going so well…
All underwear designers seem to resolutely stick to cup shapes and underwires, with the exception of sports bras. But those are so thick and stretchy that it’s like spending all day in a bear hug! Exactly not where you want to be when you’re having a hot flash!
Why can’t I find sports bra style bralettes or crop tops in beautiful colours, patterns and fabrics…?
The hunt goes on!
I know it’s important to raise awareness and I know that advertisements like this one can prompt donations and increase the funds available to hugely worthwhile causes… But seeing this opposite me on the platform on my way to work makes me want to leap over the tracks and scribble in sharpie all over the image and/or shout at the people standing next to me, describing in gruesome detail all the treatments I had to have and getting them to grope my reconstruction.
Perhaps if the campaigners could take things less seriously and develop a more tongue in cheek approach to their advertising, I might find my travels through London less traumatic…? Who wants to be reminded of the solemnity and seriousness of this or of that, when they could be shown a new way to laugh at or find fun in it instead…?
My favourite book for inspirational pictures that I am enjoying pawing at the moment is Tiny Homes Simple Shelter. I love looking at people covered in mud stamping down the walls of their own cob homes, beautiful shelves made out of reclaimed wood that’s gnarled and wonky, tiles that used to be glass bottles or jam jars and sinks that used to be salad bowls…
I have a huge crush on the idea of sustainable living. I am in love with the idea of pursuing happiness, not more “stuff”. I yearn to create a perfectly serene home and workspace out of other people’s discarded junk and somehow not fill it with things I don’t need!
It’s the filling it with things that I have a problem with… I am a complete failure in this area! Long ago I came to terms with the fact that I could never live in a minimalist space. I am a collector and I struggle not to hoard things. That’s fine. I can deal with my faults!
Goodness though, how hard it is to live in and around London without gathering stuff! It’s a daily trauma. Everywhere you go there are skips containing stuff that could be useful. Pallets are leaned up outside houses and corner stores. People leave little piles of things they no longer want on the garden walls outside their homes. Food and drink is wrapped and packaged in brightly coloured materials that might just be useful for something. And I live in the smallest possible space with nowhere to store any of it!
A couple of summers ago we installed a new kitchen… A friends old cupboard painted with acrylic eggshell and topped with some work surface that another friend had too much of, fitted with a sink that came off ebay (I hadn’t thought about using a salad bowl). Last year we put in a shower, using half an old cider barrel as the tray. I love a design challenge. Usually things remain a work in progress for some time though… The cider barrel has to stay wet or the wood shrinks and it leaks!
The trouble is, salvaged materials don’t always appear when you require them. How do you keep hold of all the things that might one day be useful while maintaining a calm living space…?
I seem to be constantly sorting and taking bags of potentially useful things to charity shops and/or bins. How I wish the world would stop pushing stuff in my direction!
I’ve always had a bit of a thing for chairs… They’re quite special objects. Designed around the human body, to cradle and support you in a comfortable position, they seem to me the closest that an item of furniture could get to clothing. I imagine armchairs to be envious of coats but possibly a little smug that they don’t ever have to venture out into the wind and the rain.
I am rather excited about the recent purchase of a much larger boaty home for myself, my chap, and the cat. The new boat is 70ft of narrow iron riveted hull, possibly over 120 years old, with varying degrees of home comfort in different sections of the interior. She needs rather too much work but we like a challenge so we hope to steadily tweek and meld her into something that we can move onto without the increased stress levels of the previous floating home purchase. Clearly stress causes cancer so it’s best to avoid too much of it!
And I intend to eliminate more stress from my life by carefully placing at least three inherited armchairs in the living area of this new home. One of these chairs is an almost ercol style armchair in dusty greygreen mosslike tweed. And the other two are golden wingbacked spaces to curl up in that my parents large dogs are going to miss terribly (where will they lie in wait for intruders now I wonder…?).
Beside each seat I will place a small chest of drawers to hide such things as magazines, knitting, bank statements, old shoes and hops, and on top of which can be set mugs of warming liquids like tea, coffee, and whisky. I imagine the space beneath the chairs will house baskets of crochet, battered sketchbooks, and half read newspapers. Possibly a lost kindle will lodge itself behind the cushions with a few loose coins or one of the toothpicks the cat likes to chase.
I am really looking forward to winter evenings cupped and cushioned with slippers on my feet, a beverage well within reach, and my fingertips busily working the latest knitting project in gorgeous soft wool…
My head is swimming with words. Every thought comes clothed in sentences full of them. They come and go like semi-domesticated animals, demanding to be fed one minute, stroked or petted another minute, and left alone entirely the next.
They never quite depart for good though… Even when I am absolutely sure that I have forgotten the word for that thing that I was trying to tell you about. The word might not be there when I need it but is sure to resurface later when I am surrounded by disinterested strangers, on a bus to somewhere, thinking about something else.
Funny then isn’t it that we still tell our children that sticks and stones can break our bones but words will never hurt us.
The most careless of whispers stays with us and can do damage long after the utterer has deserted us.
A small possibility for capturing ideas to carry around ones neck so that they don’t disappear into the air…