JO DAVISON: Be up front about supporting friends

My friend Sue had just come out of hospital. Would I go with her to get a new bra?

Only another woman will understand why the two are connected.

That when you've been visited by a procession of nearest and dearest all week, the fact that grubby grey straps have been peeping out from your nightie the whole time gets you down. That and having no mascara on.

I braced myself. Not at the thought of seeing her; we go back donkey's years and don't get to see enough of each other. Rather, at the prospect of another one of those scenarios in which the small-breasted friend (me) comes face to face with the big-breasted friend's knockers, pretends not to sneak envious looks and attempts to deal, all over again, with her own physical inadequacies.

Why is it that all of my friends have huge bazoomers? And why do the women who walk two feet behind them flash me at every opportunity?

Best Friend Louise is the worst. "Just look at the size of this bra," she'll moan, whipping up a Per Una pullover to show me some huge, industrial thing that looks like it was designed to stop wheelie bins getting nicked.

I was resigned to putting up with seeing Sue in Page 3 pose, though. Well, she has been proper poorly. And vanity was not her sole motivation; her back problem would surely be alleviated by something a bit more supportive round the front. However, it turned out there was far more to brace myself for. She's been given a wheelchair. I was sad, shocked and a bit scared all at the same time. Though in the event, what ensued was as hilarious as any Morecambe and Wise sketch.

Sue had only been in the thing once. And I have never actually had to handle one before. I assumed it would be like pushing a pram, or an Asda trolley and it wasn't.

It was much harder on account of the occupant not being either strapped in or being a box of cornflakes and a four-pack of baked beans hemmed in by metal meshing. Poor Suze. I almost tipped her out twice.

At the shop, we were completely foxed; there was a step. And the doorway looked incredibly narrow. Don't they have to have disability access by law? I half-wished Sue would leap up, like phoney disabled person Andy in Little Britain, so we could leave the chair outside. But that was impossible. We looked so helpless, the shop assistants came running. It was as they manoeuvred us in that I explained we were both wheelchair virgins.

Sue sat in her chair, inside a dressing room you couldn't swing a cat in, with the curtains open - it wasn't just me getting a full-frontal of her knockers, but there was no other way.

We found Sue the perfect bra once it had dawned on us that the poor love was saying things like: "Well this one FEELS nice..." because she had her back to the mirror. We got a looking-glass and angled it just right. Mission accomplished, we zig-zagged back to the car... and I came very close to sending her head-first onto the zebra crossing. Still, she'd got her new bra on.

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