In this world, there are a few products and services that I will sing the praises of, without any form of reward from the companies concerned. I’m an Apple convert; a Heinz Tomato Ketchup afficionado; and an advocate of Kellogg’s Cornflakes…
…but above all else, I extol the virtues of a bra fitting and purchase from Bravissimo.
Ever since my transformative experience of their service a few years back, I’ve evangelised on their behalf to countless well-endowed friends. A fairly major victory was getting my sister through their doors last year (she is thankful for finally taking my advice), but it was a delight last week to accompany an American friend to their first Bravissimo experience.
A chance conversation about bra sizes (yes, it’s up there with periods as far as stereotypical female conversations go) revealed information that led me to believe that she was – in common with two thirds of all women – wearing the wrong bra size. Plus, she’s American, and they don’t cater well for ladies whom God has blessed in that department. (I discovered this shocking fact some time ago, I still can’t quite believe it.)
So, in cahoots with another friend, we planned a girly afternoon of shopping, of which bra fitting and purchasing would be a highlight (as would coffee, cakes, cocktails and perfume samples acquisition). During the afternoon, a realisation hit me: we give men a hard time for making stupid jokes about women’s bosoms, yet given half the chance, women can give as good as they get…
As we sat in the waiting area for our fittings, one friend – unable to make a Bravissimo purchase because she doesn’t quite make it into their size bracket – declared: “I feel like a pork pie at a Jewish wedding!”
It continued as we browsed through their catalogue. I spotted a new colour patten in my favourite style (Tango Plunge – FYI) named ‘Tutti Frutti’, to which smaller-busted friend wisecracked: “Wouldn’t it be better if the ‘u’ was an ‘i’?!” [think about it…] – oh yes, we intelligent women in our 30s can reach the same level as eleven year old boys.
We emerged with new underwear and new bra sizes – yes, American friend was in a whole new section of the alphabet (as was I, which was actually something of a shock) and generally delighted with the experience. I commented to her that this would be a life changing experience – in fact, that a weight would (quite literally) be lifted off her shoulders.
Sadly, she hasn’t managed to find this joy yet. At some point during an otherwise fabulous afternoon some idiot stole a bag containing her four new bras. Hugely gutting and a massive let-down after I’d built it up so much.