Living in London, I bought some work shirts. Crisp, fitted cotton shirts with good sturdy collars and cuffs.Only problem, before long while the arms fitted, the neck fitted, the waist fitted, even the shoulders fitted, my 'ample' bust did not. By a good 4 inches.
To say I was slightly miffed was an understatement. They had fitted when I'd bought them, naturally, but a combination of a luxurious lifestyle and birth control meant that before long, they didn't.
One faded away, fraying at the seams in a way that meant nothing could be done to it to make it fit again. The others were simply too delightful to throw. After all, I'd gone to pains to chose a delightful selection. One was snow white, another with a stiff V neckline, but my favourite was white, with vivid green satin stripes down it's length.
Not wanting to waste them (they reminded me so strongly of the stiff shirtwaists of the Edwardian era), I kept them, neatly folded away in a suitcase in London, packed them into the tea chests carefully nestled amongst the numerous shoes and transported them half way around the world, supposedly never to wear them again, before packing them again into a hat box to store on the top of my wardrobe.
