The aerodynamic properties of bras
A not so strange thing happened in the Old Republic recently. A mediocre singer called Enrique, from a place called Madrid, held a concert in Colombo.
Illustrated by N. Senthilkumaran
He was late, forgot to bring instruments, and was said to have lip-synched as well. A disgruntled member of the audience, who happened to be female, employed her bra as a missile. Enrique should have been pleased it was not an empty bottle of Arrack that hit him.
The next day a politician who happens to be the present ruler of the Republic, opened his mouth….
I am not into politics but I am into aerodynamics. I was back in old Blighty with the Trouble and Strife (wife) when this incident hit worldwide headlines and I decided to investigate bra-throwing in a scientific manner.
“Darling, can you give me one of your bras?” I asked the wife. “What? Gyan! You are too old for that sort of thing! Behave yourself! ” she said. “It is for scientific research!” I said.
The argument went on these lines for some time. I did my best to explain. She flounced off and rummaged in the wardrobe.
Eventually she said “Here you are!” and tossed a bright cerise-coloured object at me, rather violently. Where did you get this from? You bought it for me in 1985 and I don’t like it blah blah and blah. Usual arguments.
I retired to the quiet of the garden with the aforementioned object. Size 36B, it said. Marks &Spencers. Robust construction. Nice violent colour. Quite impressive. NASA would have been impressed. The coast was clear. I chucked it into the air.
Disappointing result, soared only to two-and-a-half metres. Flopped back to Earth. NASA would have been unimpressed.Totally disappointing I must admit, but then inspiration struck.
“Eureka!” I shouted! “Whatsamatter?” asked the wife popping her head out of the door. “Just Aerodynamics, Darling!” I said soothingly. Yes, it was a Eureka moment.
There happen to be curiously bun-shaped smooth rocks in our garden. Looked like breast enhancement prosthesis but much heavier.
Placed one in each of the pods, or the cups; as I believe that is what they are called. Loosely twisted the straps together. The whole thing looked like a Biblical slingshot as employed by David against Goliath.
Slung it violently upwards into the air imitating David’s technique. Whole assembly reached an impressive altitude. The boosters, the bun-shaped rocks, dropped off at the correct altitude.
The cerise-coloured-bra-payload fluttered tantalisingly in the air. Fascinating. First cerise-coloured bra in space sort of thing!
Unfortunately, one of the “boosters” fell heavily into the greenhouse with a loud crash-bang clinkel-tinkle! Wife’s head pops out. “Are you finished yet? Are you demolishing the greenhouse” sort of conversation.
Pointed out that the old greenhouse was an eyesore and needed demolishing anyway. I am trying to cook dinner for you. Can you be quiet with whatever you are doing with my bra?
Front doorbell rings. Our curious, ultra-daft, wrinkled, witch-like and eccentric neighbour Elizabeth wants to know what happened. “Space debris!” I said, impressively.
“He has been chucking my bra into the air” said the wife by way of explanation. “The boosters fell into the greenhouse,” I said, by my way of explanation.
Approximately one minute of silence ensued. Rare when two women get together. I tried to sneak off and continue with aerodynamics.
“I think you both need help!” said Elizabeth, finally. “You needed help for a long, long time!” I retorted. Ha! Ha! She slithered off.
In spite of this unfortunate interruption, I persevered with my research. Success at last! Bra lifted off successfully, booster rockets dropped off flawlessly.
Didn’t crash into what now remained of greenhouse. Cerise-coloured bra-payload wafted down gracefully. Success at last.
Unfortunately, wind changed direction. Bra got caught on TV antenna. Bra now billowing in the wind like a windsock or more like a flag inviting punters to a cheap Thai brothel.
Nosey neighbours are bound to note this and ring doorbell. Panic stations! Worse! Bra catches the wind and twists the TV antenna around. Picture unlikely to be good on TV nor on the home front.
“Dinner is ready!” shouts her indoors. Walk in meekly. Could be my last dinner… Last bit of advice on bra throwing: Don’t try it! goodbye!