Why don’t people carry pins anymore, when I say people I mean me. My grandmother always had pins, an array of safety pins, pinned to her apron ‘In case of an emergency’
As a young woman I would mock her ‘what class of an emergency calls for a safety pin’
‘One day you’ll need one and you’ll know all about it then’
Well she was right, one day, as it turns out was this week. You’ll all be aware, only because I witter on about it constantly, my boobs keep growing. They have grown even bigger with the arrival of my ‘hormone’ supplement. I can’t stop them, they’re like squatters on my chest, I’m both unfamiliar and uncomfortable with them.
Things came to an unpleasant head this week, if you’re squeamish I suggest you stop reading now.
WARNING ; THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF A SENSITIVE NATURE.
As I rushed to an architects meeting with client, I could feel the industrial bra strap slip, not giving it a second thought I made my way up into the meeting. Stretching across to shake hands with the architect I could feel the industrial bra strap fall down, then it happened, my right knocker, escaped it’s lacy confines, it was free.
As we shook hands I could feel my knocker move as though it was a coordinated dance routine with our shaking hands. It was free, it was loose, it was operating independently and it’s objective was to embarrass me. The Right Knocker had gone Rogue.
Oh this called for quick thinking, I excused myself and rushed to the bathroom. I rummaged through my bag in search of a safety pin, a safety pin, shur I hadn’t seen one in a decade. What was I going to do, it’s fair to say I was a little panicked
I could hear my grandmother ‘one day you’ll need one and you’ll know all it about it’ yep that was this day.
There I sat on a toilet, one rogue knocker hanging onto freedom and me feeling embarrassed, dejected and if I’m truthful a little amused.
Unbuttoning my blouse in a tiny toilet cubicle I decided that these knockers could not go anywhere undressed, oh no not these, I couldn’t control them they operated independently of me and one another.
Grasping at straws I looked through my bag again, there on my furniture recommendations was a very large ‘paper clip’. So with a little imagination I managed to construct a paper clip bridge on my industrial bra strap.
It would appear that a large paper clip was just as good as a safety pin, uglier but just as useful.
My grandmother would be proud, who am I kidding she’d call me a gobshite.
The Joy of a Rogue Knocker and a wise grandmother