It was, after all, their insistence on the importance of underpinning that led to me Madame Fifi in the first place. The 50 years it took me to take that first tentative step inside the door in the dark alleyway are best ignored, wiped from the memory as wasted years.
But crossing that threshold was in its way as significant a moment as man's first step on the moon. A small step for woman, a huge step for me.
Inside the blonde bouffanted woman - not Madame Fifi herself; she only comes out of retirement for the great and the good - took one look at me and pointed her finger, authoritatively, 'Go in there and call me when you're ready.'
Another busty blonde had positioned herself between me and the door so I had no option but to obey. In those days I wouldn't have dreamt of arguing anyway; my transformation had not yet begun.
Inside I hesitated. How much did I have to remove? My outer coat obviously and, I assumed, my jumper. 'I'm ready,' I whispered tremulously but she was outside the cubicle waiting and she appeared immediately.
She sighed. 'I can't measure you through your blouse.'
'Oh.' I took it off nervously. 'My bra, it's, um, a little old,' I said.
She sniffed. 'What size are you wearing?'
'Um, I don't know really. The label's washed off. About 36B maybe?'
She sniffed again. And shook her head. 'I see women like you every day. Wearing the wrong size bra. These are your most precious assets. You have to take care of them.'
It was all over in a flash. Then she said, 'Stay here.' As if I could get away.
She returned with two lacy contraptions with more metal bits than the Severn bridge. 'Let's try these first.'
I waited for her to leave but when it became obvious that she wasn't going to I swallowed hard and my pride and undid my bra, leaving two blotchy dangly breasts. I kept telling myself: she does this for a living; she must have seen worse.
She gave me the first one. I turned it back to front, upside-down and inside-out and wound it around my waist. 'What are you doing?' she practically screamed at me.
I quickly undid it and gave it back to her. 'I'm sorry I thought I was supposed to put it on.'
'That's not the way to put on a bra!'
She sighed again. 'Lean forward and let your breasts flop in.'
I did as bid: flopping breasts I can do no problem. She held the bra in font of me, did it up and yanked me into a standing position. 'There, how's that?'
'It's a bit tight,' I squeaked.
'No, it's not; it's perfect. You're just used to no support. Here.' At this she stuck her hand inside the left cup and fiddled vigorously with my boob. 'You have to get them in the right position.' She repeated the action with my right boob.
By now I had passed being surprised and was in a state of shock.
'There, how does that feel?' Without giving me a chance to reply she continued, 'see how it lifts' - she ran her finger from my ribcage to my nipple - 'and separates?' - and from nipple to nipple. 'Now put your jumper on top and see the difference.'
I was beyond arguing; I did as I was told. I put on my jumper and looked at myself in the mirror. 'Wowzers!'
She stood back modestly, used to the makeover reaction.
I turned from side to side, full frontal and back again. 'Wowzers!'
And that, dear readers, is how I became a UN ambassador for Proper Bra-Fitting for Women. If I'd been converted 30 years earlier I could have been Barbara Windsor.
P.S. Husband would like me to point out that he paid less for his dinner suit than I do for a bra but I think that says more about his suit than my bra.