article_snippet.sent: Cleavage you can change like your clothes?
article_snippet.sent: Once the bra is on, I feel let down.
article_snippet.sent: I throw on a tight T-shirt and wander into the kitchen.
article_snippet.sent: I try to explain that the bra simulates ‘real cleavage’ and that I am going to be trying out various looks.
article_snippet.sent: I try on a succession of tunic tops and soft blouses.
article_snippet.sent: I resort to a clinging V-neck dress — a once-worn look-at-me frock bought for a wedding.
article_snippet.sent: It’s not what I’d normally wear, but I’m not dressing for Annabel now; I am dressing for my cleavage — and
article_snippet.sent: At 43, am I too old to show off my cleavage?
article_snippet.sent: I feel self-conscious, but I press on.
article_snippet.sent: My husband and I have tickets to a West End show in the evening, so to ensure maximum impact I invest in an expensive low-cut dress on the basis that if I have
article_snippet.sent: My posture changes at once: I am pulled forward by the extra weight, leaving me hunched over and exposing a vast swathe of cleavage to my fellow shoppers.
article_snippet.sent: I bend down to pick a box of cereal off the bottom shelf and worry that I’m about to suffer a wardrobe malfunction.
article_snippet.sent: I crouch down to sweep the floor and my chest hits my knees; I sit down for a snack and my bust slams on the table before the plate.