BREASTS: A PHILOSOPHICAL TREATISE

BREASTS. To have or not to have, and if so, to what extent? This particular, shall we say, philosophical debate has been raging - and I use the term advisedly - across all areas of the British media, from glossie to broadsheet.

Just a few years on since it became not only acceptable but desirable to be generously endowed in the bosom region, the trend now seems to be reversing at alarming speed towards the adolescent gnat-bite boob vogue epitomised in the sixties by Twiggy.

Obediently, young ladies who for years have sought to disguise and embellish their mammary minimalism with the best that international corsetry and a sock down the bra can do, are incautiously flaunting their childlike forms with the assistance of the skinny-rib t-shirt and its ghastly minions. The task at hand for the fashion press now is to persuade the cleavage brigade to ditch the Wonderbra and to go for the natural line, minimum support fabric brassiere. Not a totally natural breastline, however; the idea is to hoist 'em up page three style with the aid of sellotape and just pretend that's what they look like really.

Well, God forbid my lady bumps should be incorrectly proportioned or displayed! This really is getting out of hand. We're used to being told to get thinner, fatter, taller, shorter, more assertive, more girly, and those of us with any sense pick up on what suits us and what we're happy with and leave it at that.

But when something as fundamentally female and, well, personal, as bust size becomes a subject of major debate amongst the fashion cognoscenti yet again, I can't help but wonder not so much from where they derive their authority, but who the hell in their right minds pays the least bit of attention to their dictates?

Don't get me wrong: I like fashion. It's fun. At its best, it expresses a mood unique to a particular period of time and acts as a method of social identification and communication. Yeah, I'll blow my mouth off about how dreadful this hippy revival stuff is and laud the value of a well-cut jacket but as far as I can tell, it's up to the clothes to look good on me, not vice versa.

For those of you out there not in possession of a pair (or more) of breasts, believe me, it's a strange business having them. Watching the 13-year-old niece of a friend, as I observed her in an unguarded moment gazing down speculatively at the small peaks forming in the top region of her t-shirt, it all came flooding back. How your body starts changing and all that bit, and for the first time ever, one part of your body assumes a disproportionate importance over the rest. You know what your breasts are, biologically what they're for and what feels pleasant to them, but what do they mean?

sensual stimuli

A hell of a lot, apparently. I well remember my bafflement at the looks of admiration bestowed upon Deirdre in the fifth form for her particularly enormous tits. Not content with her 38DD status, she left an extra button or two of the pale green nylon school blouse undone and hoisted 'em up with the assistance of a miracle of modern engineering, the better to display them for the edification of all. She looked proud, but I couldn't work out just what it was she had achieved, nor why boys were quite as fascinated as they were.

I guess she responded to their appreciation of her form by granting individual viewings. That was her reputation. But then, with ineffable schoolgirl logic, we assumed anyone with gigantic bazoomas to be a slag anyway. Somewhere in there a giant leap of logic took place; breasts were the symbol of attaining to sexual maturity (biologically speaking) and womanhood. If they were too small, you probably weren't into boys much (and they weren't into you, either) but if they went off at the other end of the spectrum, sexuality was your sole raison d'être.

Even those males who can boast a degree of genuine sensuality linked into their sex drive take several years to fine-adjust the qualitative nature of their mammary fixations from bigness to subtler parameters such as shape, colouring, texture and proportion in relation to the rest of their owner's body. After a while, they may even take a degree of interest in how the owner of the so-desired fat and gland repositories likes to have them treated and, at a push, how she responds to this and other sensual stimuli.

You hear of some of them actually getting jealous when breasts are used for, er, breast-feeding. Some of them get quite petulant at having to share their breasts with a total stranger, a baby at that. And when, after years of use, those emblems of femininity start the inevitable downwards course towards the naval, there is the almost triumphant contempt epitomised by the mother-in-law joke.

Ben Elton in one of his better stand-up moments remarked on how, if men had breasts, they'd spend all day in front of the mirror, jiggling them about and going "Phwooorh!" This is, I am sure, a gross exaggeration. Yet somehow I don't think the constant bickering in women's mags does much to suggest that we, the owners of these most desired appendages, are not at least as obsessed with their dimensions and power(?) as our male counterparts.

Well, hell, I'll tell you the real reason I'm burbling about breasts. An acquaintance who isn't called Marion, but I'm not quite so insensitive as to reveal her real name, has just had four kilos of filling scooped out of each breast and for three reasons.

One: comfort. Things that big make your back ache and the extra heavy duty bras cost a fortune. Two: appearance. They completely concealed her waist line, making her look permanently pregnant. The first thing you noticed about Marion was BREASTS, HUGE GREAT WOBBLY BREASTS. It was obvious that any one person describing her to another would have to be singularly right-on not to mention her most dominant feature - namely her BREASTS - by several metres. Three: men. Her trophies of womanhood were attracting all the wrong types. Mostly the lowest element, whose sole interest in Marion the person seemed to lie in gaining her consent to shove their faces and cocks into her cleavage. With or without breathing apparatus.

It was extremely hard for her to get anyone to take her seriously. Apparently very, very big titties are understood as meaning you are thick and virtually under obligation to let every man jack have a feel of them. Like they're so conspicuous, who are you kidding saying they aren't public property?

breast modifier

It will be a while before we know if her life will noticeably improve as a result, and at least it wasn't the act of a fashion victim. At the moment she has dark shadows round her eyes and isn't saying much. She is definitely keeping a low profile. She is Afro-Caribbean, a culture more prone to appreciating the curves and fat deposits that identify female shape than the western society generally and its obsession with trying to get women to look as much like transvestites as possible. She has yet got family and friends en masse to deal with.

She was basically a youthful 'Black Mama' shape, if I may be permitted to stereotype for the sake of expediency: in rejecting that, she rejects the similarly shaped women to be seen all over Brixton who walk tall and proud, their shoulders carrying the considerable weight of their breasts beneath tribal printed gowns. See, Marion dressed Western, whatever that means in this day and age. Now her body is adapted to suit those clothes. You pays your money, you makes your choices. It's a free world, c'mon.

Well, for those woolly-headed little females out there who, like me, wish nothing more than to please and comply, there is good news afoot. I am working on a device to solve all of your problems. Namely the patented Wolftree Breast Modifier &. This small, pump-like device is implanted discreetly into the tissue of the breast, facilitating instant inflation or deflation of the breasts by the simple operation of the 'Mam-U-Like' & easy-grip hand-held trigger modulation system. No-one will notice the cunningly disguised flesh-coloured valves, only a new-look, more confident you.

One model suits all. Why not get one for the man in your life, so he can have his very own breasts to take around with him to fondle as and when he chooses? It's an ideal present for a friend who's down in the dumps, or even the mother-in-law!

The Wolftree Breast Modifier & is completely safe and comes in easy-to-use DIY kit form, complete with scalpel, an ampoule of 'Spring Breeze' fragranced local anaesthetic, nylon thread, batteries, air cylinders and a complimentary pack of sticky plasters. Separately available is the patented Wolftree Boobometer & which allows you to precisely monitor the size of your breasts on each operation of the Mam-U-Like &. Advance orders are now being taken.