One of the buildings
from my old school had an entrance area with a long low bench which a group of used to sit on and eat our lunch at breaktimes. It had a set of double doors that lead to the rest of the building.

One day, a little Year 7 pelted into the entrance hall and towards the doors. In a miracle of timing, Mrs R, one of the younger, more frontally endowed teachers, was coming through the doors in the opposite direction at the same time. In another convenient coincidence, her barely contained rack was at the same height as the cherubic face of the Year 7.

I could swear you heard the impact.

Mrs R looked relatively nonchalant, no harm done, the head of the Year 7 was pretty easily absorbed between the two meat mountains on her chest. The Year 7 however, upon extracting himself from the warm and unfamiliar environment of her milk makers, went bright red, and in an adrenaline and hormone altered squeaky voice, repeatedly yelped his apologies before fleeing, probably to the nearest toilets.
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 19:05, Reply)