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Norks. Knockers. Melons. They go by many names. They come as a pair. Every second person in the world has them. Perhaps even more than that, if you’re counting moobs. I am, of course, talking about the humble human breast. At times, it can feel like everyone is breast-obsessed. Trashy magazines are full of advice on how to make your baps look bigger, smaller, perkier. Search the word ‘boobs’ into Google, and it’s likely that your search results will contain little else than dodgy surgery and free pornography.
I was recently on the London Underground, the only place, bar a game of back seat of the bus where you can become disturbingly unsure of just which limbs are your own. From what I have gathered, a cramped tube compartment seems to be some sort of breeding ground for perverts. Evident from the delightful man who spent a large proportion of the 11 minutes from Kings Cross to Victoria station staring intently at my chest. Whilst this still baffles me, it is something I’m used to. I’m frequently told that these are the first two things people notice about me. Yes, not my sparkling wit, or dazzling humour, or my serial killer smile. No, they are much more interested that I am able to comfortably hold a bottle of Apple VK in-between my bosoms. (A handy party trick, if ever there was one.)
Of course, aside from the unwelcome male attention I have received since I was about 12 (along with the heckles from cheeky builders), there are the everyday aspects. Shopping is one. Unsurprisingly, most high-street stores don’t cater for women looking for literal over-the-shoulder boulder-holders. It is more than embarrassing that whilst the majority of my friends are purchasing enticing skimpies in satin, lace or the latest fashionable print, I am buying a bra that could also function as a marquee for a very large garden party. It’s safe to assume that most dresses never fit me either, and even when they do, I am increasingly aware that low neck-lines make me look like a low-budget version of Abi Titmuss (pun intended). Roll neck jumpers are a distant memory, lost in the haze of my pre-pubescent wardrobe. Buttoned shirts are to be worn only with the accompaniment of a risk assessment, in the tragic case that my fun-bags might break free and cause an unassuming passer-by to lose an eye.
Still, with anything in life, there are positives for having big boobs. In being a bit cheeky and lowering my neck line, I nearly always manage to get served in the pub, way before the girl next to me. My assets could well be the key to my future, particularly with extensive plastic surgery and fake tan. As I keep telling my parents, if I fail my degree, at least I’ve got a back-up plan. Most importantly, as my wise old Grandad used to say, I’ll never fall flat on my face.