Summer madness has struck: a potent combination of social conscience, family togetherness, avoirdupois guilt and the need to support what is largely most precious to us. As my husband, Adam, feels that the thing which is largest and most precious to him was my bust, Adam, my son Alex, and I are taking to the streets in bras on the Moonwalk to support breast cancer. More accurately, we’re not actually supporting breast cancer but the fight against it.

We decided not to be The Tamoxifen Trio; might seem odd as the team is more than three, although we could have gone for Surgeon’s Seven if we didn’t mind sounding like a film. We chose Cooper’s Troopers, taking our name from the suspensory ligaments of the breasts, a mechanical arrangement related to the Golden Gate Bridge in my case.

On applying, we had to give our bra sizes; prising this info from my fellow walkers seemed as safe and easy as pulling teeth from a rhino. At least they weren’t asking for our weight; no hope of accuracy there. We think Alex was tricked into agreeing to do the walk; he thought he was receiving 36 bees. For the men, bra sizes are a nightmare. Do you go for big cup sizes to carry drinks and snacks or smaller ones to make sure they don’t ride up at the back? Despite ordering the largest chest size available, I expect that by the end the men will have a neat white line all around their chests where the fur has been rubbed off.

This year’s bra decoration theme is Hollywood glamour, yet therein lies the problem. One could have swathes of gold lamé across one’s chest, two top hats strategically placed or enormous amounts of silk and lace stuck to one’s frontal appendages. However, what bothers me is rubbage. I’m mentally scared by the mere thought of walking a huge distance with lace scraping at the softer parts of my anatomy. A friend of mine has thus decreed décolletage decoration with masses of small, multicoloured paper roses (those of you who immediately thought of Marie Osmond are showing your age) which could link to many films, so we’re not only polychromatic but polycinematic. Our Fabulous Floral Fronts might invoke memories of American Beauty, South Pacific or Alice in Wonderland. Perhaps the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy falls asleep in a sea of poppies might be the closest to our reality as we will be walking at midnight. My body clock, which is dormouse-esque,  bleats that this is a bad plan, but the logical part of me tells me that adrenaline will surge in and, inspired by the thought that if I stop walking I’ll get trampled by the other 14,999 walkers, it’s likely I’ll stay awake long enough to stumble across the finish line. I’ll also be propelled by the magic of finishing= cold beer.  Alex might go with a Batman theme, but I don’t recall the episode where Batman wears a bra; doubtless, it is yet to come.

Thus we are springing into action, tramping the streets of London dressed as tramps, having signed up for the half marathon. Although the organisers, bless their cotton socks (on their blister free feet) have decided to add an extra 2 miles. We wouldn’t mind so much if they had added it at the beginning when we would still be fresh, but it’s been added onto the end, presumably to make sure that we sustain an appropriate level of exhaustion for the event (they already did; it’s midnight, 15 miles, pavement, no beer.)

Still, people have been kind in supporting us as we support Moonwalk supporting society. I might post photos afterwards, although those of the sensitive nature might prefer to delete them quickly.

If you are kind enough to want to support all of us, click here.

In summary, my three big points are it’s a good cause and … you know the other two.

Onwards and upwards!