That most sisterhood-y of all activities,nourishing children,had decimated my bust. It looked like eggs in socks were hanging off me. Think those early 1970sNational Geographic features that always had photos of topless women in Papua New Guinea,and you’re in the ballpark.
Rebuilding my breasts via modern medicine for the decades of bikinis and sex that lay ahead felt a power move. But given the reaction,it seemed maybe I had it wrong and that women friends who enhanced their looks with hair dye and lipstick saw surgical intervention as a sellout.
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After that,I decided my choice was my business. Would only confirm I’d had a boob job if people asked me directly when I sailed into book group or the school yard with a prow like Fairstar the Funship.
Our builder heard rumours and was curious. What did they feel like? A purely medicinal feel was offered. He bridled like a horse seeing a snake.
Decided it was crossing a line,which I respected at the time and remembered when the royal family announced on the same day that the Princess of Wales will be out of action until Easter after abdominal surgery and King Charles needs an operation for an enlarged prostate.
First reaction:Charles should be fine. How fabulous he’s sharing his diagnosis to encourage other men to check their own health. He knows we’re all suddenly thinking about his bits and he’s cool with that. Not long ago,royals wouldn’t cop to so much as a cold,let alone cancer,lest we see them as mortals and not monarchs. The King is saying,“I have a penis,what of it?”