On a recent flight to New York, I was delighted when the Captain announced: ‘This is your Captain speaking. In the event of a forced landing on water, all passengers should make their way to the woman in seat 36F, whose magnificent chest-mounted flotation devices will be your best chance of survival.’ He added, cheekily, ‘Phwoarrrr!’
You’re probably thinking ‘what a lovely surprise’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise. At least, not for me.
Throughout my adult life, I’ve regularly had men I don’t know leering at me in restaurants. Once, a well-dressed chap bought my train ticket when I was pressing my enormous assets into his back in the queue, while there was another occasion when a charming gentleman fondled my norks as I stepped out of a cab in Paris.
Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and invited to sell ‘the one of those puppies with the pink nose’. Even bartenders frequently don their horizontal blinkers when I try to settle my bill.
And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the gents have always said the same thing: Gor Blimey Missus, You Don’t Get Many Of Them To The Pound, Eh? Eh? Woo-Hoo-Hah-hah!
While I’m no Pamela Anderson, I’m tall, slim, usually pink-haired and so, I’m often asked whether I am definitely a woman. I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to having massive mammaries — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely jubblies.
If you’re a woman reading this, I’d hazard that you’ve already formed your own opinion about me — and it won’t be very flattering. For while many doors have been opened (literally) as a result of my looks, just as many have been metaphorically slammed in my face — not literally, obviously, on account of my ginormonus gazungas.
I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually look at my baps, a sudden chill would descend on the room.
And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid.
You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances.
Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else having the biggest bazoombas in a room.
Take last week, out ‘walking the dogs’, a neighbour passed by in her car. I waved — she blatantly blanked me. It seems the only crime I’ve committed is not leaving the house wearing a robust hessian undergarment. Incidentally, she has knockers like two aspirins on an ironing board.
Hello Dolly: Muriel laments that not one of her girlfriends has ever asked her to be a bridesmaid - perhaps from fear of being overshadowed by her impressive melons
Large-breasted women don’t have it easy. If you are well-upholstered, other women think you lead a perfect life — which simply isn’t true.
They don’t realise you are just as vulnerable as they are. It’s hard when everyone resents you for your hooters. Men think “what’s the point, she’s out of my league” and don’t ask you out. And women don’t want to hang out with someone with bigger charlies than they have.
Take last summer and a birthday party I attended with my husband. At one point the host, who was celebrating his 50th, decided he wanted a photo with all the women guests. Positioning us, the photographer suggested I stand immediately to his right for the shot.
Another woman I barely knew pushed me out of the way, shouting it wasn’t fair on all the other women if my considerable assets were dominating the snap.
Perhaps one day the sisterhood will finally stop judging me so harshly on my unparalleled shirt potatoes, and instead accept me for who I am. Because I’m lovely. Obviously.