Bras & Anti-Capitalists

It was a pleasant bank holiday weekend in Brighton. Starting on Saturday with a trip to the vet with Steve that left me £90 lighter and broke the car.

In the evening I took Rob, Henry and his friend Jon to Komedia to see the Krater Comedy late-show. A pretty good line-up with a very, very funny first act. There was then continuation of the drinking which as usual, ended on West Street – oh God help me. I blame Henry entirely for this as I never go there unless he is around. I did meet some very “nice” lads from Haywards Heath [exotic] who we couldn’t get rid of for a few hours. One of them had a Sugar Puff t-shirt I remember vaguely.

Sunday I had lunch with Ilona in the Pavilion Gardens – where the sky mirror has been set-up. We did some catching up and she is very excited about a new man on the scene. I then went for a very long walk from Hove lawns to the Pier and back again and watched ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’ for the second time.

Monday the weather was disappointing so there were no frivolities on the beach; which had been planned for 51 as a bonding session. Instead Katie cooked me some lovely lunch and stuffed me full of Ferrero Rocher before forcing me into Bravissimo. Now, it is important to note that Monday was also the chosen day for the Anti-Capitalist March through Brighton which targeted businesses such as Macdonald’s whom they believe to be connected to the weapons manufacturer in Mouslecoombe. I had no idea that they were building weapons at the bottom of my road! I lived there for a year without this knowledge. Anyway, there were quite a few angry people wandering through Brighton whilst Kate and I were browsing bra-styles and waiting for fittings.

Maybe I am naive but I wasn’t really prepared for the fitting experience. Firstly, although I am famed for my love of a little naked time I do tend to only indulge around well known company, taking my top off and having a stranger stare directly at my chest was very odd. I don’t mind the top off part but the sort of direct staring was unnerving. Then having several bras handed to me and being instructed to “put yourself in it properly” whilst muttering and pondering about sizing was occurring began to make me uncomfortable. To add insult to injury I began to worry that my fitting lady would be alarmed by my actions and so I couldn’t decide how to stand or whether to put the robe on or where to look. Anyway, the result of the entire experience is I have been told that I am a 34F. Yes. An F cup. I am horrified by this knowledge although my bra does feel pretty good.

So whilst policemen were swarming all over Brighton trying to prevent a riot and paramedics were being warned that they would be targeted in any violence and protestors were shouting and burning things to improve the world I was having my breasts sized by a strange woman.

I think mine was the more successful revolution.