I can remember the registration number of every car our family has ever owned since our first one in 1965.
I would beat you at Trivial pusuit. No question.
But, despite the fact that I was going out with my first girlfriend for the best part of five years and phoned her pretty much every day during that time I simply cannot remember her phone number. I can still remember the number of my best mate, George, from that time and he moved house about the time I finished with Anne. But hers I just cannot recall.
Or her birthday for that matter.
It’s as if my subconscious has wiped that bit of my memory because I knew I would have no further use for it.
Fortunately, one memory of her remains vivid: Her bra.
Or, more specifically, one bra in particular.
It looked like a typical schoolgirl bra of the time: Navy blue with white edges and straps. Stretchy, opaque material with padded full cups (if you could call them that) completely covering and augmenting their sparse contents. It was very plain, no frills or lace, almost chaste in fact. But what made it special was what lay in between those two little cups: A little square white plastic clasp with a round button in the middle. Press the button and…POW!!! The thing flew apart to reveal her tiny breasts beneath.
Or would have done if she had been so inclined to let me. Which she wasn’t, very often.
After I met Heather we spent more time than was reasonable in trying to find an identical bra, or at least a similar one, for now I was together with someone who would welcome me popping magic button on a regular basis, but to no avail. We couldn’t find anything remotely close, with that ingenious little pop mechanism. They just didn’t come in Heather’s size. There must clearly be a good engineering reason why they don’t make front-loaders for women of more generous proportions. Or were we just looking in the wrong places?
In the end, and with much practice, I mastered the skill of unhooking a bra strap with one hand and, guys, if you haven’t yet acquired this skill I can recommend it. Used in moderation it evinces a certain experience and savoir faire that cannot fail to make any woman go weak at the knees. But I still miss the thrill of pressing that little button.
So what brought on this little burst of nostalgia?
Lat week in the weekly advertising bumf from our local ALDI Market, which included this:
The featured bra features a cunning magnetic clasp at the front and, not only that, the matching knickers open at the sides with a similar clasp. Now that sounds like fun although, needless to say, they don't come in Heather's size.
But hold on a minute, what happens to the clasps in a magnetic field? Just imagine walking through security at the airport. The beeper goes off and one of the guards moves in to carry out a more thorough search. The search coil passes over your blouse and suddenly… FERTANGGGGG!!!!...your bra flies apart. The detector moves further south and…SPLANGE…SPLANGE!!! There go both sides of your knickers. You have to shuffle on board your flight with your boobs hanging free and your drawers around your ankles.
Just a thought. Don't say I didn't warn you.
