It's been a depressing couple of weeks for women d'un certain âge, what with the Gallic love rat story and then having Kate Moss pictures pop up everywhere - enough, if you are not armed with a sizeable current account, to make you want to give up, really. After all, even the irrepressible Silvio is ensconced in a Lake Garda beauty salon as I write and one can't help wondering if he'll emerge looking like Joan Rivers.
We lesser mortals must do what we can and when a girl has to buy a bra she has to buy a bra, so it was onward and upward [hopefully] for me as I headed for the bra sale yesterday. I had regarded this as a chore and certainly did not expect the experience to cheer me up, as in the UK it's only all right to be a C cup or above if you are Nigella. Here, though, it's a different matter and I was quite pleased when the assistant called my bosom abbondante and proceeded to bring me some very pretty specimens.
Abbondante is so much better than "big"!