Breast is Best

Madam Tussaud's new "Like a Regimental Soldier" exhibit. Free replica pair of legwarmers included in the ticket price for all Blue Peter badge holders and members of the Wetnurse Union.




Despite phenomenal success in my previous career as a borderline alcoholic, I've never been one for bearing my breasts unnecessarily in public. True enough, my cleavage has all too often forced its way to the front line of a party or two, and been an enthusiastic negotiator in some of my more tricky business meetings. Hell, my nipples may even have triumphed in the odd game of petanque on the Normandy beaches, but in polite company I've managed to refrain from exposing even the wispiest hint of areola to the world.

(To be fair, those of you closer to me may recall the unfortunate incident with the Croatian policeman and the pig's trotter, but my less familiar readers can rest assured that it was a complete one off, and note the "unnecessary" caveat above.)

However for the past 4 months or so, my previously modest attitude to communal breast display has undergone something of a volte-face. The trouble with babies, you see, is that the damn things do keep getting hungry. And it doesn't matter how much they've eaten before you leave the house; if you're breastfeeding they're guaranteed to demand another mammary-go-round as soon as you've even thought of crossing the threshold to life outside.

What's more, once in the public arena, babies have a knack of screaming the entire world and its dominions down until you give in and feed them. Not in an "Oooh, I've just had dinner, but perhaps I fancy a biscuit," type way, you understand. Oh no. It's more of a "You haven't fed me for a week and a half, and even then it was just a Pot Noodle. And you know the Chicken & Mushroom flavour makes me sick. You are a terrible mother, and I wouldn't be surprised if you mug pensioners and laugh at cripples in your spare time," type of cry.

And trust me, no matter where you are, when you're faced with that kind of protest you've little choice but to whap your, erm, assets out and get on with it. For the lads, lasses, and anyone else who cares to get in your way.

So somewhat unsurprisingly, my nipples have now had more public airings than Nora Batty's drawers on a windy washday in March. In fact, if government figures are correct, they've been viewed by no less than 6 bank tellers, 2 British Telecom engineers, 17 waiters, 41 barristas, 12 patrons of the British Library and at least 21 weary passengers on a night flight to Malaga. Oh, and not forgetting 5 students dressed in sumo suits, plus the entire acne-ed cast of my local Budgens and 1 very surprised man looking for directions to the North Circular.

Ah well: sumo-suited students I can live with. But with that amount of exposure it is just possible that my nipples are getting a bit worn out by now: in fact, their fame and physicality may well stretch all the way to the Australian outback by the time I'm done.

Still, at least Lucy will have had her lunch, and I can always auction them off as spare bungee cord on eBay when she's through.

Just 28 days, 4 hours and 3 minutes of bid time left, apparently.