BUSTING OUT

By Tara Kenny

One of my earliest boob memories is going to my primary-school friend Amelie’s house and ogling shopping-centre ‘glamour shots’ of her mum wearing a corset and holding a rose in her mouth. I was simultaneously embarrassed and in awe of the overtly adult images – in particular, her pumped-up, lace-covered breasts. Thanks to Margaret Simon – the spiritually confused protagonist of Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret – and her desperate but catchy chant of “I must, I must, I must increase my bust!” I learnt that big boobs are a hot commodity.

Although, as a teen, I don’t remember ever wishing my own mosquito-bite boobs would get bigger. I put this down to both my love of athletics and coming of age in the era of bony-chested beauties like Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie and the Olsen twins. While their tiny, almost prepubescent-looking frames weren’t the most attainable body type for the majority of women, the flat chest and bandeau dress look was a win for those of us with naturally ‘small and humble’ breasts (never to be confused with mountains). In my later teens, I do vaguely remember fantasising about getting a boob job to look more like a footballer’s wife, but ultimately settled for a trip to Bras N Things – the mecca of teenage hypersexuality – to stock up on highly flammable push-up bras. Through sleight of hand, I would entice my first boyfriend, whose hobbies included surfing and looking at big boobs in FHM.

Then came