What a tit

Female Ploggers... this will probably be the last Plog you ever read from me. No, I'm not planning on giving up the Plogging. "So what is it then?" you ask. "Why will this be our final Plog?"

Well Ploggers of the female persuasion, I will tell you. After today's Plog I pretty much guarantee you will loathe me so much that you will abjectly refuse to read any future Plogs, no matter how bursting at the seams with genius they are. (And of course, they usually are.) I understand this, I understand your hatred. And I would like to say, thanks for supporting me this far. It's been fun.

So yesterday I was in Marks and Spencers, killing some time whilst TheBloke (TM) wandered. I toddled over to the lingerie section and noticed they were doing a £5 discount if you had a bra fitting. Now my bra fitting days ended sometime around age 18 when Mrs Nunn herded me into a tiny lingerie shop in Loughborough, in which (unbeknownst to Mrs Nunn) the only other customer was the most evil teacher at my high school. I was then molested for a good fifteen minutes by a barrage (bra-age?) of middle-aged ladies who would between bras shout inappropriate things to Mrs Nunn and the evil teacher, who was listening in by default. "Oh, doesn't that feel better around the nipple area?", "Jump up and down for us," and so on. Every so often they would whip the little changing room curtain back, and invite me to stand in the middle of the shop and parade up and down in a bra for the benefit of - well - no-one. It scarred me for life. Luckily, I stopped growing around the age of 16, so 32D, or sometimes 32C has seen me pretty well ever since. I never felt the need to repeat the groping experience, regardless of attendance - or otherwise - by staff at my high school.

Still, a £5 discount is a £5 discount, I did need a new bra, and I had a bit of time to kill, so in I popped for the bra fitting. Hate me yet Ploggers? No, of course you don't. So far you have read my escapades with a mild amusement, and, because you're all lovely people, with a soupcon of sympathy. This is all about to change.

So, it turns out I've been wearing the wrong sized bra for a while. Before I progress, I do feel I ought to warn you that I've been eating quite a lot recently. And am not adverse to the odd bit of chocolate every twenty or thirty minutes. Despite this, my weight has remained pretty constant at just over 7 stones. In fact, I'm a few pounds lighter than this time last year. Could this subtle weight loss have changed my bra size?

Possibly, yes.

Because despite eating my heart out in Krispy Kreme donuts and all-you-can-eat tapas and - amazingly actually losing weight - I appear to have gone from a 32 to a 30... which means that my cup size is now DD. Yes, I am a 30DD. And when she put me in the correct size bra, suddenly I looked like the sort of model you see on those late night programmes inviting you to ring them whilst they jiggle a bit. Except I was less orange.

So, female readers, poor me... I can't seem to put weight on on my stomach, bum and thighs... But everything I eat goes straight to my breasts.

You may send your hate mail now.