I'm yours tonight..

To my father, who has somehow found my blog. I don't think you want to read this...

I've been putting it off for a while.

I didn't even really need to do it.

I can try them on and find one that fits eventually, right?

Alas I've been on tour and sleeping in them frequently for the last few months, mostly due to sheer laziness. As a result I've got permanent red lines on my chest and every one of my bras is running on minimal elasticity. If I'm going to buy bra's en masse I want to know that I'm buying the right size.

So I did it...

I took the plunge and set aside an afternoon to get my tits measured. In Plymouth. God knows why... there was logic for that, I'm sure.

And I was probably working on the assumption that all the old ladies in M&S up and down the country are equally un-scary. So I guess this is where my plan starts to unravel... oh, that and the fact that my chosen day was, in fact, the first bank holiday Monday after Christmas.

Yeah, I know, don't laugh.

Marks was a seething mass of panicked middle-aged women; brassieres flying over display racks and landing on the huddles of confused-looking husbands on the other side. Winding through these wild creatures, I found the fitting rooms.

CLOSED FOR SALES.

Great, fucking great. I'd come all the way to Plymouth (kindly referred to by me as the "armpit of the earth") and I can't even have my chest fondled by some nice old lady.

In a moment of sheer industriousness I took myself to Debenhams, whose undercrackers department I have patronised before.

Walking down into the basement of my concrete playground I became aware of what I was dealing with...

Pink. Everywhere. Florals. Everywhere. Lace. Everywhere. This was a SEXY underwear dept. Not like, Ann Summers' saucy, but a step up (or down?) from M&S.

What the hell am I doing? I thought.

The only person who's seen my naked tits in years is.... well, let's not get into that.

The entrance to the room-of-impending-doom revealed that my measurer would be one of a group of young girls. I truly was about to get my knockers out for a whore. Ushered into a small, dingy cubicle, I was told to strip down to my bra and stood, shaking with nerves, in wait for the whore's next move.

A set of lurid pink acrylic nails wound their way around the edge of the curtain (my safety net).

A screech warned me of this walking STD's imminent intrusion.

The talons felt their way around my ribs; stretching and inspecting the black fabric of my bra. With the skill of Ron Jeremy, the hag had flicked apart my clasp, revealing my bare, flaccid chest. A ragged tape measure found its way around my tits, and - as suddenly as this dark chapter had begun - I was left; cold, topless and alone, in my barren cage.

My whore returned with a bra (black, grim) and told me to put it on.

(A minute of awkward fumbling begins on my part)

"Perfect! Does it feel comfy?"

Yes you whore, it fucking does. I feel violated, embarrassed, and naked. But, jeez, my tits are chilling about four inches further towards the heavens.

"You've gone up in size. Isn't that great?! You're a 34D".

With that, her prematurely wrinkled mouth cracking to a hideous smile, she turned, and left.