Sinful Sunday: Happy Birthday

Today is my birthday – or, rather, given the shortness of the day, my birthdate.

It was growing dark by the time I was born; had I been a little later I could have been a midwinter night’s baby, instead of a murky twilight child, straddling the second shortest day and the longest night.

Because it’s so close to Christmas, planning anything to mark it is always a bit of a gamble – but this year I get a trip to the Rocky Horror Show tomorrow, and tea and cake in one of my favourite tea shops later today.

And speaking of cake – or brownies, in this case… it’s not a proper birthday without candles.

Woman holding plate of brownies with candles

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Festive Sparkle

For all this has been a rough week, on Tuesday I woke up smiling.

It’s December.

For most people that means Christmas, but for me it means birthdays – mine and those of many of my friends. Other people only get glitter and baubles and fairy lights for landmark birthdays; we get them every year.

And it’s finally proper winter. I love the feel of summer on my body, but I love the bite of winter on my face just as much. The cold makes me pale in a good way, while giving me roses in my cheeks. People comment on the light in my eyes, even if there aren’t any Christmas lights reflecting in them.

Not that I’m averse to adding a bit of extra sparkle, of course.

Festive sparkle

And yes, I’m still covered in glitter.

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: That bra

Somehow in the past few years I’ve found myself without a good, sexy, black bra.

Then I managed to find four in a sale, and three of them turned out to be true to size *and* give me a good, oomphy, silhouette – no plunging so low that my chest may as well be flat (something of an achievement given the FF-ness), or giving me a cottage loaf profile.

I could only justify keeping two at most, and couldn’t decide between the runners up, hence the above request to the hivemind.

The reason I’ve managed to go without a black bra for so long is that I have plenty of beautifully coloured bras instead. I like vivid shades and bright things, and my underwear drawer – and the posts featuring its contents – reflect that.

My absolute favourite (at least, it was before this week’s purchases) made a guest appearance a couple of weeks back. Several people commented on how lovely it is – and it is. It’s purple over turquoise, and I swear it’s luminous.

It’s That Bra.



Actually, it’s still my favourite.

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Fireworks

I’ve been debating what to post for this week’s Sinful Sunday for a while. There’s a picture I took at the same time as this one, which is far more revealing and daring than anything I’ve posted before, but there are a few reasons I didn’t want to post it this weekend in particular.

Besides, I live in a part of the world where a few towns over they go a bit doolally at this time of year. The nice middle class town of Lewes takes it upon itself to set fire to everything in sight (apart from the Castle, the Really Old Bookshop, and Waitrose), all in the name of tradition.

I’m not so much into the fires myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love a moderately sized one in a grate, with a big chair beside it and a pint or mug of cocoa in my hands, but my favourite part of Bonfire Night is the fireworks.

Sparkler held in front of woman's breast

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Sweet release

It’s prompt week, and this month’s prompt is “simple pleasures”.

I could tell you all about the circumstances behind the above tweet – but what it boils down to is that I have a 34FF chest. Walking down to the Co-op for some milk when I’m not wearing a bra is an adventure in physics; pogoing around the living room without something supportive quickly goes from being liberating and fun to quite painful actually.

Any other woman whose nipples can migrate to her armpits when she lies down will tell you about the double edged sword that is the Good Bra. The comfort and relief that comes from wearing something properly supportive, balanced – and, towards the end of the day, negated – by the tightness around the ribcage, the straps gradually rubbing at our shoulders…

There’s nothing like that moment of release.

Woman removing bra

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Sharing the bed

I am terrible at sharing a bed.

Not that it was that much of an issue really; sleepovers were rare. I can probably count the number of times he stayed over on one hand.

The very first night we slept together I said, only half joking, that I couldn’t sleep unless I was on the left. He replied in the same tone that he had to sleep on the right.

True to our own words, he always lay, dozed, came at me, from the right hand side of the bed. In the pictures we took, his would have the left hand side of my bedroom in the background; mine would have the right of the room, reflecting our bed-based geography.

The side of the bed is the least of it.
I like the space, the ability to shift into a cooler or warmer part of the mattress as I need, the fact that I can have as many blankets piled across the bottom of the bed as my perpetually cold feet require (as well as bed socks) without having to worry about how uncomfortable they make someone else.

I don’t rest well when there’s another body in there with me. The extra heat, the movement, the breathing (and snoring), the fact that I like to be thoroughly cocooned in the duvet, that my increasingly wonky joints need to be laid or supported at particular angles and heights.

He found my inability to sleep when there was another body present odd. He said he’d found that most women he knew said they slept better when they had company. He found it amusing that the few times he stayed over, he’d wake up to find me wearing an old T-shirt and curling into a tiny space in order to preserve enough of a border between us that his body heat wouldn’t interfere with my need to be thoroughly swaddled by duvet.

I may be able to sleep through anything, including explosions outside my house (at least twice), but I have to be asleep before that superpower kicks in.

And yet, all those other nights, when I had my gorgeous orthopaedic mattress and blanket-laden duvet to myself… When I felt lonely, or cold, or wide awake for no good reason, I would roll onto my right and imagine curling into him, or my hand resting on his chest and playing with the hair under my fingers like I had that very first night.
Even if sleep continued to evade me, doing that relaxed me.

I am terrible at sharing a bed. But now it feels huge and devastatingly empty.

Naked woman alone in double bed

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: The Windmill

Once upon a time there was a theatre in which entertainers entertained, on stages set with scenery that included beautiful women, nude and unmoving throughout.

It was called The Windmill.

Originally I’d wanted this image to be of my whole torso, with the spinning windmill just hiding my nipples in a blur of motion… but while the fan, windmill and camera all played their parts admirably, I’m not a very good statue – and after all that effort, I realised I much preferred the simplicity of this shot.

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Sinful Sunday