A fortunate side effect of some medication I’m taking is the acquisition of enormously enhanced breasts. Well, when I say enormously enhanced, I’m doing so in the context of one whose spaniel ear bosoms lost any zest for life when they finished producing milk for four children in eighteen months.
I’ve never had good breasts, not even pre-children, and I’m positively delighted with my new toys. I keep finding myself idling cupping them as I sit in traffic waiting for the lights to change. It’s not a sexual thing – I’d do the same if it were a new handbag.
They definitely attract more male attention than the old ones (although the cupping may have something to do with that) and I think they’ve given me a certain je ne sais quoi around town.
“Something’s different about you.” My greengrocer said on Saturday. “Have you had your hair cut?”
I leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s my breasts.” I confided.
He gulped and dropped an extra aubergine in my veg box.
My husband’s rather pleased with them, especially as they’re actually in play at the moment. The last time I had a magnificent cleavage it was the morning my milk came in, when the slightest touch was agony and landed him a geyser of molten milk in the eye.
Unfortunately my current medication is also responsible for some rather terrifying mood swings – or so my husband told me the other day from behind the safety of the shed door. I don’t know what he’s moaning about – surely it’s a small price to pay for a pair of enormous jugs.