Underwire Bras. I'm sure someone thought they were a good idea at the time. Mostly, they are uncomfortable to wear for an entire day and if the underwire begins to migrate from it's stitched casing, the ends poke into bits that were never meant to be poked with wire at all.
This is how my morning developed. Becoming more and more uncomfortable. Wire tip prodding flesh far too soft to be prodded. I tried and tried to push the wire back into place, well aware that jamming my hand down my blouse between my breasts on this insistant mission must've looked a bit strange to my work colleagues - apologise apologise - but I had to rid myself of the pressing pain.
Wire tip meets fingertip and the fingertip'll never win. A firmer tool was needed, and as luck would have it, there was a bread and butter knife on my desk. I used its handle to force the wire back into its casing. Ah, sweet relief. But wire being wire and bras being bras and me being me it wasn't long before the wire was on the move again, but I wasn't so disturbed because I kept the bread and butter knife handy and pushed the wire back into place for another burst of relief. Such a good idea.
This went on into the day, until the inevitable happened, I reached for my trusty tool and used it the wrong way around. It slipped off the tip of the wire and sliced my skin better than the wire ever had, leaving a bloody gash between my breasts. Clutching at my chest the dots of blood appearing on my shirtfront.
I looked at the knife, what a stupid thing to be shoving down my shirt, it just seemed like such a good idea at the time.