My dressmaker is very unhappy with me. After asking her to do me a complicated saree blouse design on a very tight deadline, I go for the final fit on... and the sleeves do not fit. In her own words "your arms have gotten unusually fat, haven't they?" Several dark mutterings and a few more measurements later, it turns out that not only are my arms fatter by almost an inch, one arm is fatter than the other!
Mums was most unsympathetic. She asked me what I expected after eating 6 slices of bread for breakfast everyday during the preceding 2 weeks. The "I told you so" went unsaid, but hovered in the background, flapping around in a pointed sort of way. Felt very downcast, but resolved not to cut down on the bread too much until after the blouse was worn... another refitting would have made poor Aunty tear out her hair in frustration.
Happily, I got the blouse, big sleeves and all, a full 4 hours before the party, so I guess all's well that ends well.
And in case you're wondering, it's a yellow blouse.