A tragic tale of humiliation. And epic failure in the wardrobe department.
Dear Devoted Readers (all 3 of you),
The time has come to lay bare my soul and risk your opinion of me sinking from the heights we have enjoyed together into the depths of what-the-fuck territory.
It all happened one sunny day in 1981 when I was racing a policeman on my motorbike: not the one that sounded like wasps in a box, but the far superior Yamaha RD350LC. My pride and joy.
First, a minor digression about the underwear malfunction central to this tale of woe. Stay with me; it is crucial to the plot.
Sometime before the fateful day, I had gone shopping for a bra, size 28A. Hardly worth bothering with.
Filled with the kind of shame and embarrassment that can only come from a Catholic upbringing or Boarding School humiliation, I found in M&S (the only place in the UK you could buy underwear in 1981) a box with the requisite 28A label and a picture of a passable white thing with matching knickers (XS). Alas, I returned home to find some cruel and sadistic shopper had swapped the contents to a mauve brassiere, size 36GG, and a pair of knickers (XXXL). No judgement here. Nothing wrong with size XXXL. Just stating the facts.
Taking them back was out of the question, and I hid the box at the bottom of a drawer.
Back then, I did not know I was autistic and suffering from Executive Dysfunction. I’ve done some research since my diagnosis, and I can sum it up for you: Executive Dysfunction is when someone has got into your frontal lobe and messed with the wiring so you have zero ability to think before acting, plan anything, or realise you are about to run out of clean underwear.