There used to be a poster about breast cancer in my doctor's surgery
when I was about ten. It showed rows and rows of naked breasts, all different shapes and sizes (from the "Balloons held up with invisible string" to the "Oh crap your sausage has escaped" varieties.) The slogan was something like, "We're all built differently, but we should all be checking for breast cancer lumps" (or possibly gristle, in the case of sausage lady... anyway.)

My mum decided that this would be a good time to inform me about femininity, and breasts, and so on. She starts off speaking in a quiet voice, but as she gets in to her topic, pointing at the various pictures in a kind of, "That's a 36AA cup, remember it well," manner, her voice gets louder. Every sick person in the room is suddenly not coughing, or avoiding the contagious person next to them, but joining in the conversation. Discussion about breast size, proper bra fittings, backache and so on were rife. Many a husband was asked for his opinion and then dismissed, many a child's ears were covered.

I, naturally, wanted to sink into my seat and die. As I was called for my appointment, an old lady who'd just claimed she used to be a GG cup before "gravity set in" smiled and wished me luck. All I could think of was those bloody sausage boobs.

Whoever invented that poster made me dread puberty like the plague. Thanks, whoever you are!

Length? About eighteen inches... almost resting in the lap.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Fri 7 May 2010, 23:32, Reply)