First they came for cleavage and I did not speak out, perhaps because I’d never really had any. When in 2016 Vogue declared it “over”, it seemed entirely right and progressively modern that the credit-card slot of old had had its day.
Then they came for underwires and I still did not speak out, because who hasn’t spent all day thinking about sliding off their bra through one sleeve as soon as they arrive home? Millennial Savonarolas had been burning their balconettes along with the rest of their vanities even before the pandemic, but it wasn’t until lockdown that I went fully “soft” and swapped my boulder-holders for the sort of banana hammock last worn pre GCSEs. It was bliss.
