It really does. On one side only, fortunately.
I'm not entirely sure why it creaks and I'm not sufficiently compelled to find out exactly why, but it's enough of a creak that I think carefully before putting it on. I sometimes wonder if other people can hear my creaking bra while I'm out.
If I were to claim some "bad luck with _______" credits for my live thus far they would for sure be in the bra department. I do not have any fortune, skill, or Happy Purchase Memories whatsoever in the acquisition (sometimes wearing) of bras. As a result we share an uneasy relationship with each other. I wear them; they torment me in a vague but persistent way. They either have straps that slip off my shoulder on one side no matter what I do or the elastic wears out at the speed of light or they feel like a safety pin squeezing me tightly or, worst of all, they itch.
And right now I'm sitting in a creaking bra.
The chicken all have spring fever and Fern is getting seriously good at flapping over the Keep Out You Maniac Chickens! fence. She's a stealth fence getter overer too: she knows enough to hide in the artichoke bed and do most of her damage there before anyone spots her. Why is this so irritating? you ask? It's because chickens have long sharp talons, like a giant scary garden fork. With a beak that is just as persistently sharp (and scary). Fern can shred the asparagus bed in less than 4 minutes. Don't ask what she did to the last of the white sprouting broccoli because I can't stifle the sobs when I talk about it. It's like she has a homing signal on them.
On the plus side, I transplanted more tomatoes (than I think we can usefully plant in the garden) today and not a single one drooped. What I lack in the Bra Luck Stakes I recouped in the Green Thumb Club. In fact, the entire garden, including the stupid Bishop's Weed I can't get rid of, is doing really well. Mason bees are out, the nectarines are blossoming, daffodils, primroses, pulmonaria, and dandelions. We're a little late to the peas-in-the-ground phase. I tell myself that it's rained a lot and I probably would have had the lot rot. Yeah, right. Keep telling that to yourself, Sheila.
And look what Richard E Grant sent to the funeral of Richard Griffiths this week. I love this.
|Funeral Unbaked Vegetables|