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girl anymore. I then started wearing training bras which my dad – probably pretty mortified himself – called ‘bib tops’. This was pretty cringey.
    As I entered my teens I began to embrace my new curves a little more. They weren’t going away so I knew I’d better get a handle on them. Aged about thirteen I remember asking my mum if I could go and get a real bra. We finally went to get one and I was a 34D. I felt rather smug about that as she hadn’t thought I needed a bra yet. Bib tops were still OK by her. Suddenly – ha! I had a proper bra size and they sounded like they weren’t too small, either. This was what I wanted, right? My friends and I then proceeded to spend most of our late teens wearing Wonderbras. It seemed to be that we all wanted a killer cleavage. God, Wonderbras were uncomfy. Fortunately my twenties introduced me to getting properly measured, balconettes, comfort and a happier, less aggressive rack. I haven’t looked back except for the times after having my babies when I have endured the joy of nursing bras. Until that point, you don’t think there’s going to be a time in your life when you will wear whatever it takes to get your boobs out whenever and wherever you are just to feed that baby.
    I think all sizes have pros and cons. I have experienced mine big and small. With my pregnancies I’ve got to try out having really massive boobs. Quite fun and I always miss them a little when they go. That being said, what I have now is fine. A handful but not out of hand.
    So what’s round the corner? Hopefully we still have some fun times ahead. I will still be hoisting them in bras, possibly feeding another baby with them one day and checking them for lumps. When all is said and done it’s the serious side of boobs it comes down to. I hope they stay healthy. I really do miss my grandma.

CHERRY HEALEY
    If there were an NSPCC equivalent for boobs then mine would probably be in care. I haven’t been very nice to my boobs. In fact, they are suffering from a severe case of neglect.
    I’ve got size 32DD boobies and I do everything in my power to conceal them. I am an expert in minimiser bras (the best ones are from M&S by the way) and finding clothes that hide any hint of a bulge (loose shirts are always a winner). My sports bra is so tight that I struggle to breathe (extremely unhelpful during a legs, bums and tums) and I would feel more comfortable wearing a batman costume than a dress that revealed my cleavage. I don’t even like that word. It sounds like an STD. ‘I’ve got a nasty case of cleavage.’
    Essentially, what I’d really love are little, pert, cute, size B puppies. You know. Those boobs that don’t really need a bra. Those boobs that sit happily up like springer spaniels waiting for treats. Those boobs that laugh in the face of a strapless, silky dress. Ah, how I would love to buy those pretty, lace balcony bras rather than heading straight for the Mammary Gland lingerie.
    You see what I mean about being mean? I don’t think I’ve ever said a nice word to my poor glands. They just sit there, doing their job and doing it very well and all I do is complain. Enough.
    I’ve grown up in the Kate Moss era where gamine is God. As a teenager I used to stare at the models in magazines and long for their fragile, boyish frames. It was a time before street style (a wonderful, celebration of different bodies) and TOWIE – big boobs just weren’t ‘in’.
    But I have recently felt a shift in myself. In a world where people pay thousands for painful surgery to enlarge their breasts, I should be embracing my boobies. I should wiggle them and jiggle them and set them free. I should wine them and dine them and dress them up.
    The more I realise how ungrateful I’ve been, the more I realise how ridiculous it is to fight against the body shape you naturally have. Oh the time I’ve wasted