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It's only semi autobiographical
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Tah-Dah!
And more directly by being bullied by Kieran and Nix.
Essentially, each of myself, Kieran, Fred and Ben will write on a series of topics over the next four days, covering the same subject areas. (I will make sure I have all the blogs linked in the sidebar tomorrow.)
So, without further ado, I bring you... Underwear.
Clearly, this particular garment comes in manifold shapes, sizes and forms. There is even disagreement over what, exactly, constitutes underwear. Socks for example, sure, they are worn underneath shoes, but does this make them underwear in itself? I for one say no. And furthermore will make no attempt at justification, other than to say that I also do not consider a t-shirt underwear.
But, getting to what one might describe as the meat of the point, I intend to briefly (If you will excuse the semi-pun) discuss the noble bra.
Yes, the bra, nemesis of many a young fellow's fumbling fingers, finding themselves foiled by the finicky clasp. While one can improve in this particular department with practice, this undergarment retains a certain mystique, at least for those of the male persuasion. Its job can be to conceal, to enhance, to obscure or to flaunt. Some have decoration, and some are utilitarian, bizarrely some are plain, with a random bow. I was recently introduced to a kind of strapless bra, which has loops in it, so you can put on straps. However, one aspect which can be mildly perturbing still, is when one is in a shop selling these items, and one look sat the sheer variety of sizes the things come in. It seems improbable that they are all needed. Some I could happily use as a hammock, others I might be more comfortable storing two large eggs in. Now I am aware that human beings come in all shapes and sizes, but still...
Anyway, I appear to be losing my direction, thrust and point somewhat, so rather than exhausting myself in one great burst now, I shall wrap up, so as to have enough creative energy to make a worthwhile post tomorrow, as I scrape the metaphorical rust from the dubious edged instrument that is my creative brain.
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