The red bra


A red lace bra is about as far away from the country as you can get: the epitome of decoration, of display, of boudoir. When your focus is on the things that need to be done outside yourself – like this year’s harvest, planting seeds, or nurturing livestock – a red bra seems irrelevant by comparison. It’s certainly not the first thing you reach for when you get up in the morning.  However, after a recent trip to Sydney, I’ve changed my mind. At least, ‘Pamela’ changed it for me. Usually I visit the 7th floor lingerie department at David Jones, and, while glancing at the flimsier things in my peripheral vision, leave with the usual bundle of comfortable, cotton Bonds in sensible shades of beige. This time I met my match: a woman of a certain age and build who convinced me not only to check my bra size, but also to try on a bra more suited to Rihanna than life in rural Karoola. The décor seemed all chandeliers and mirrors as I tried on Pamela’s choice of the “Selma Dancing” bra in ‘Hortensia’, a sort of pomegranate red. And here’s the thing. A bra has never fitted me better: more like a swimsuit with lift than underwear.  It came home with me wrapped in tissue paper but has since dug up a vegetable patch, taken down a paling fence, and cleared the boundary of blackberries. No one would ever have guessed that I was not dancing but gardening with Selma.  That’s her, hanging with the cherry blossoms at the Nuns’ House.

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