INEVITABLY being the fickle creatures that human beings are, already talk has switched from what we miss while in lockdown to lamenting everything that we will be sad to lose after we exit in the coming weeks and months.

For many, this means saying goodbye to a slower way of life and easing back into the grind of a daily commute. For me? It's returning to the shackles of wearing a bra.

If you don't wear a bra typically – and I appreciate that large swathes of the population have no need for one – then it is perhaps difficult to fathom the feeling of liberation that not wearing a form-fitting undergarment brings.

I realise the bra has powerful political connotations and to avoid wading into that particular quagmire let me state: this is all about comfort and sloth.

How you feel about bras largely depends on how you view breasts: ornamental or utilitarian? Those in the former camp tend to spend a lot of their hard-earned cash on fancy underwear and outfits that showcase their assets.

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The second category is typified by arriving home of an evening – or at least we did when offices were still a thing – to cast off both coat and bra in quick succession, sighing in relief as blood flow again reaches the welts on each shoulder where the straps have been digging in.

During lockdown, the only times I have worn a bra is while exercising (rare) or on a video call with colleagues (a feeble nod to professionalism given I'm usually wearing XL men's joggers and an inside out T-shirt).

More recently, I have worn a bra when receiving guests in the garden, putting it on with all the lacklustre enthusiasm of a Victorian lady being shoehorned into her corset.

It is a necessary evil when outdoors, as I discovered to my peril during a conversation with a neighbour over the garden wall.

The upshot was I had to keep my arms strategically crossed over my chest the entire time which made me look far more defensive when discussing encroaching tree roots than I genuinely was.

An underwire snapped clean in half the other day which I like to think was an act of rebellion but is more likely a reflection on the poor nick of an ageing fleet of brassieres.

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Nor are bras my only nemesis. I feel the same way about the jeans languishing in my wardrobe. I have visions of having to douse myself in grease simply to coax them above the knees. At this juncture, I doubt even Geoff Capes in his heyday could summon sufficient strength to help fasten the button. Hey ho.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald