Boobs, bazongas, breasts, bangers – whatever you call yours – they are going to love this!

Middle of the night - the mad stare

I am not a bumper of gums, a promoter of stuff, a plugger of product.

I cannot be bribed to say yes when my heart says no.

So there I was, without too much detail, in hospital with stitches all over the place. When I say all over the place I mean on my back, my side, arm pit sort of area – aka to women across the planet with an excess of  a 26 inch chest – the bra zone.

Being not insubstantial in the boobing department the thought of not wearing a bra until all is well was a horrific contemplation. After boobs grow past a certain size they are your ballast, your balance, your buttress and when let loose, unfettered, all at sea,  the level of comfort and security you feel drops and a woman feels – well, out of control.

When on a wild crossing on an Italian ferry I recall staring out at the dark dark night pitching and rolling into nothingness and I became convinced the boat was to be scuppered. Near tears I kneeled on my bunk bed as the boys slept around me and put on my bra. Suddenly clamped, steadied and firm I was a woman back in control.  Watch out Captain Pugwash I’m  back.  So it support of the chestal frontage is a basic human necessity in my world.

So cut to last week. I lay in a hospital bed, unable to sleep, watching TV. Watching anything on TV and I mean anything. Anything to save switching off into darkness and the reality of where I was in the half light with beeps of machines, blue and red lights beating, coughs and splutters of fellow patients.  Earplugs jammed in it was the dead of night as I stared vacantly at the screen and eyed two horribly healthy smiley white teethed American women talking to each other in Primary school teachers voices.  I gave them a fed up glare but void of the energy to turn over I watched. God they went on. And on and on. An on.  But I was captive. I was the audience.

They were talking about the Ahh bra. Or as we would call it in our typically cynical Scottish way the ‘Aye, that’ll be right bra’.  Within my morphine induced haze I watched slack jawed and scrutinised this stretchy sporty no seams or clasps sort of affair and thought holy tamoley, could this be be the elixir of chest? Might this contraption actually work? What if what hey say is true? –  which I very much doubt it is – BUT if it did it would surely be the answer to all my problems – well two of them anyway. So 15 minutes infomercial brainwashing later I texted Dynamite.

‘Please order me an Ahh bra

So....looks pretty unremarkable right?

She’s a resourceful girl my Dynamite so  asking no questions – including WTF are you doing texting me at 3am? – she did.

So yesterday, 7 days on, still swooping in the frontal area and ensconced back home Dyna arrived  at 11am with Doris,  a mini Schnauzer in one hand a package of bras in the other.

The first thing is – as I can’t put my arms up just now – you can step into it,  slip this thing over your feet and up round to your waist.  It is small and flimsy and  as I looked at it bunched round my tum, my cynicism was back and on overdrive it’s made of almost 40 denier-stocking materials,  white, flesh or black.  Nope it would take a feat of engineering, an optical illusion, a miracle of sorts but there was absolutely no way my 32 ff beezers were going to fit in there – in a medium – nope impossible.  But they did.

They honestly did.

Hoist the main brace – there is hope, there is joy, here is something so intrinsically simple that has made an unbelievable difference to my life instantly.

Dyna and I  have stood in any a changing room together laughing as helpful assistants have foraged through their bags and boxes in an attempt to fit us with a bra. Without exception we aye ended up with something more  akin to scaffolding for a 4 bedroom house than any underwear I have ever even seen so Dyna knew the magnitude of what she had just witnessed.

‘Right I’ going to try one on too’  she announced whipping  off all the clothes she had on her top half – it was in the morning, broad daylight,  and I hadn’t had a chance to tell her David the long-suffering husband was in the house too.  Aware the the neighbours could see in , if they were daft enough to look, she got down on her knees to change behind the couch and before she got a chance to slip on the Ahh bra her mini schnauzer Doris clamped her regular bra between  her terrier teeth and ran off round the room, at speed ,cackling (well she wasn’t actually cackling but if she could she would have).

Cute bra stealer

It was at this point Dave put his head round the door to check on the invalid aka me to find Di crawling round the floor topless trying to catch an over excited Doris and myself in danger of collapsing my other lung – in absolute knicker wetting hysteria.

10 minutes later we had calmed down, and were both braaed up.

Hooked. But without an eye and fastener. They are simple, they are great. They are my new love. They are something that all women should know about , if you get sore boobs, have big boobs, if  your boobs ever need a little TLC.

Now as I said I am not a gum bumper or product flogger but this is less of a plug and more of a revelation that all women should be made aware of.


There. My job is done.

‘The Aah bra is not rocket science – it is considerably more important!’ Alison Craig, smiling for the first time in a fortnight.


Writer & broadcaster.

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