Today, I would like to talk about boobs. I just took my jumper off, and the intern got an eyeful. This is glorious, as I will no longer have to do any of my own photocopying. I do, however, have to be very careful now, and have taken to scraping the yoghurt off the lid with a spoon (rather than my tongue). I mean, there are limits. To be fair, the intern looks like if he met a real-life naked woman, he would probably back away carefully, stammering about how she ‘looks nothing like they do in my comics’. Though I suppose the intern wasn’t brought up in the 1940s, so he probably has other boob references. I personally have lots of boob references. Hundreds. No honestly, I look at boobs all the time. I’m not even subtle about it. I like boobs. Well, within parameters, I like boobs. I’m personally a little alarmed by boobs that don’t move when a woman runs, though I imagine enviously the money she must save which I squander on bras. You shouldn’t really be able to keep yourself warm with your boobs, so if they’re resting comfortably on your stomach, I’m most likely not going to perve on you in the female changing room. Obviously if you are pregnant, no rules apply. (I can’t wait to be pregnant and use my stomach to push into queues, wee on the floor if I feel like it, sit down on the escalator). It is a matter of great annoyance to me that there is no official taxonomy for boobs. You can spend 3 or 4 minutes trying to describe your ideal boobs. It gets tiring. And those hand gestures do not go down well in Waitrose. Equally, they do not like it when you pick up different food items to try and demonstrate your boob. What I am asking for, really, is better boob vocabulary. And the intern to do my photocopying for the rest of the year.
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