Majestically Mammaried

“When I roll over in bed my breasts clap”

- British comedian, Miranda Hart

I am rather generously endowed in the breast department. The good Lord saw fit to grant me bosoms large enough that my bra size is probably the key to a rather complex quadratic equation.

Due to the unseasonably fine weather in London I have decamped a few layers and so today ventured out in a light purple cotton T-shirt. Midway through my walk I realised I was receiving ‘glances’ – generally from middle-aged balding men following their wives around the posh shops of Wimbledon Village. Whenever I start to receive ‘glances’ a.k.a the Glad Eye I grow suspicious, as I am not normally the glancing sort. Walking past a shop window my reflection identified the problem: my breasts moving independently of the rest of me seemed to be auditioning for a part in Baywatch. Despite the fact that I was only walking my jublies were doing a damn fine ‘Pam Anderson.’ Although enclosed in a rather good and expensive brassiere my mammaries were moving like independent life forces, two wobbling jellies undulating spasmodically with my every step.

And this is the problem with large breasts – they are permanently attempting to escape their brassiered confines and embrace the laws of gravity. Finding a bra strong enough to halt this escape results in underwear rather like a prison warder – beige with no sense of humour, underwear that would not go amiss in a nunnery. Once in my pre-married life a gentleman caller caught sight of my contraceptive bra drying and asked if it was Kevlar coated and had I thought of donating it to the homeless to live in as a tent? Luckily I had long been accustomed to teasing of this nature; my father being surrounded by a family of three well-endowed females was constantly fighting for space in the bathroom with drying bras (they must be hand washed so as not to damage the udderwiring, I mean underwiring). My father’s reaction to this invasion was to exit the bathroom wearing a bra on his head:

Me: Father you have a bra on your head.
Father: Yes, I’m keeping abreast of the latest fashion in the tradition of Amelia Earhart, just looking for my flying goggles.
Me: Oh, very funny.
Father: I hope I’m not making a tit of myself… have a look at my sheep dogs…
Me: Your sheepdogs?
Father: You know my round ‘em up and point ‘em in the right directions…my over-shoulder-boulder-holder…

Here my Father has hit upon another snag i.e. I am very reliant on my ‘sheepdogs.’ However it appears that no woman beyond the age of 80 worries about an over-shoulder-boulder-holder any longer, they prefer to let sagging breast rest upon sagging stomach, the way nature intended it. This is fine for the slim chested but I’ll have to tuck mine into my waistband. When I brought this up with the Husband he said that this was an issue that should have been discussed pre-marriage. Too late you poor man, that’s what becomes of those married to the majestically mammaried.

It’s like my nephews and niece recently sang to me:

Do your boobs hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Do your boobs hang low?

Well, give them 45 years and we’ll give that bow tying a shot.