When your chest needs its own postcode.

In 2011, 672 women died as a result of injuries sustained from overly large breasts. That is probably a fictional statistic. Actually I know it is because I just made it up. But surely somewhere, this is the reality. Large breasts can be a hazard.

I can hear at least half of the population saying “So what’s your beef lady? Large mammary glands are the bomb diggity!” And while its true being a Chesty La Roux has its moments, largely they just seem to get in the way.

You know your breasts need their own postcode if you have every experienced any of the following:-

• Clothes fit you everywhere else, except your chest;
• You go to great pains to cover them up but they still bust out of your top with more determination than an inmate of Shawshank Redemption;
• You can lose an entire course of a meal in your cleavage “Oh I’m sure that chicken Maryland was just on my plate…no, wait, here it is!”;
• When you lie down, you feel like you may choke to death;
• Going for a jog is an exercise in physics…weight + velocity x gravity = a reinforced sports bra; and
• People become hypnotised with that space between your belly button and your face. Men, women, children….everyone. Even you. It has this power that humans are unable to resist.

In no way am I trying to give the illusion that my chest is the biggest (it ain’t) or the best (it certainly ain’t). But its been ample enough to cause a few problems along the way. So while I continue to find last nights dessert nestled sweetly my townships, I think its timely to celebrate women of all shapes and sizes. We never seem to be happy with what we’ve got…but I’m just happy I’ve got them at all.