(image from the London Times)
Is it true? Some may say yes. Some may say a nice set of bosoms can fill many voids. They are comfort to some, an aesthetically pleasing curve to others. They are a source of pride. But the bigger boobs the better?Here are two articles on the subject, but see below for one woman’s perspective on her bazooms.
How to dress for your breasts
Enhance your cleavage with makeup
And now, have at it Camilla Long.
I’ve always been thrilled with my 34DDs - let’s just say the conversation rarely flags - but sometimes enough is simply enough. You want to hide them away from prying eyes and spaghetti fingers. (“Oops, sorry, thought that was the… light switch.”) You want to say goodbye for ever to sweaty summer rigging and enormous orthopaedic bras; goodbye to flesh-coloured straps (why, if they’re meant to be invisible, can you always spot them at 50,000 paces?); goodbye, even, just once before I die, to bras altogether.
So, yeah, living with big breasts can be a bore. And, as a DD, I’m nowhere near the crippling turbo-melon category. Those poor women who wake up to find their airways blocked! Unlike them, my breasts do not constitute half my body weight and all of my personality; there are not, at any given time, three old Etonians down there on a charity toboggan run. Still, I’ve had to learn how to handle them (steady, chaps) with due respect.
It has taken 15 years. At first, I hated them. The tricky teens, when everyone is staring and snapping your trainer bra and making you want to die. Then, in my early twenties, I started to love them - perhaps too much. They were out the whole time, public property, a whole new currency, even: there’s not a bouncer in London who won’t let you in for a quick flash (and I have researched this). Then there is later, now, when I’ve finally worked out that covering up at least 1% of the time is more punchy than constantly showing them off. I have learnt to apply the element of surprise.
I have learnt many other things, too. That nobody brushes past you “by mistake”. That martinis are a death trap, because you can lose olives down your cleavage and nothing will make you feel more pig elegant than that. That clay-pigeon shooting is totally out (such a pity, because I do have talent). That high necks are impossible, while low ones make you look like a barmaid. That there’s nothing like a pair of big bangers - “the cavalry”, as a friend calls them - to settle the matter.
I abide by three rules: 1) Getting them fully out is a no-no, even if you’re in the south of France. It’s nothing to do with unsightly saggage - only sluts go topless. 2) Using them in the boardroom is provincial. A girl in a suit with tidemark foundation and big boobs out for all to see is the female equivalent of a short, balding businessman with two mobiles. Just watch the next series of The Apprentice. 3) Never, ever, wish to have small ones. Ever! Even in the face of a tank top. The French say that a woman without breasts is like a bed without a pillow, and they are right. A friend who tried big prosthetics for a day reported that large ones were “very, very fun - everyone perked up when they saw me”.
Case closed.
As for men, never believe them when they say they prefer smaller ones. They’re just trying to be arty, nice to their girlfriends - or there’s something really wrong. (“Sorry, which bit is the breast again?”) Most of them are in denial.
As my friend James insists - he likes “small ones … firm to the touch and the right shape and feel. I only look at large ones to check I haven’t changed my mind”.
Office romance
