I glanced in the mirror. A pair of pert knitted boobs stared back at me while a second pair bulged out beneath. This wasn’t the plan.

“You’d know that was the handiwork of a 21-year old,” chided the Wise Elder of the two pink yarn balls. “No woman over the age of thirty would place the nipples that high!”

She was right. I should never have agreed to let a model, for whom gravity is an alien concept, custom-make my t-shirt at a London Fashion Week party.

“Are you wearing a bra,” she enquired earnestly.

“Of course, I am,” I snapped. “I’ve hoisted the damn thing so high; it’s cutting into my back!”

“That’s classic spite at work,” cooed the Wise Elder. “That taut little filly ironed those motifs just high enough so you’d look foolish.”

Maybe she was right. I’ve never had issues with my own. The girls have been the one part of my body I could rely on; the same height with or without a bra – no jiggling, no dangling, just right.

But as the theory of relativity would have it, I may as well have attached two shanks of dried salami to my torso; or scrawled ‘Torpedo Tits!’ all over myself. Like Hester Prynne – I felt branded, shamed and forced to pay dividends by wearing my Scarlet Letter (of sorts).

“It goes in the charity bin,” balked the Wise Elder. “Let the college students rummage over it while they still understand irony.”