Only a few weeks before, a couple of girlfriends had been saying how jealous they were of my C cups, how they, mere As, would to anything to be as out-front as me. Now I stood there, almost in tears, uttering the words I never thought I'd hear myself say: "Would you bring me a couple of Wonderbras too please."
When the Wonderbras came, I snatched them in desperation, thinking that I would immediately be transformed into Eva Herzigova. 34C - too big - no uplift. Matron returned with another. 34B - too big, minimal uplift. She smiled smugly. "Would Madam like to try a 34A?" No! No bloody way. I yanked the curtain shut.
That was it. I needed to do something about it pronto. I had a lunch date, but nonetheless, I stopped to buy the biggest bar of milk chocolate I could find, and ate it on the way. My date commented that I had an unusually good appetite at lunch, as I tucked into a pudding and a cappuccino. "Eating for three," I said, but he didn't understand.
When I got home, I retried my existing Cs, which all seemed to fit. OK, maybe it all wasn't so ample as usual, but I grew suspicious - was there some sort of cup conspiracy afoot? I rang a couple of girlfriends and asked them to go and try on a Wonderbra and tell me how it sized up. The stalwart 32A Wonderbra wearer was loyal to the last, as it had given her what Nature had forgotten to - she had even converted most of the female contingent of her office to the uplifting faith. The breastfeeding mum said: "Bras do shrink, you know - that's why you have to buy new ones, but in your case, it sounds like they've just shrunk-to-fit." That really made me feel better about life.
I decided there was only one way to find out the truth - Rigby and Peller - corsetiers to the Queen, and anyone else who can afford a pounds 40+ bra. They are the oracle on cup sizes. And do you know what they said? I'm a true C, so up your uplift, Eva.