My mum has boobs. Nice squashy ones that sort of fall out of her bra when she takes it off. When boys were mean to me as a teenager or ditched me for Kirsty Grantham in the year above me because she let them touch her breasts, my mum would cuddle me into her squashy boobs and let me cry there. Growing up I assumed I’d have boobs like my mum – as my dad doesn’t have them it’s hard to imagine what his side of the gene pool has by way of boobs! But as eleven, twelve, thirteen passed and I still had no reason to go to that bit in Marks & Spencer where they sell early-years bras, it became clear that Dad boobs I had – literally. I am now forty and I still have no boobs. And strangely, as I have every other body hang-up known to woman, I am fine with this. I like that I can wear really low-cut tops and not look slutty. I like that even on a ‘fat’ day I know I can wear black trousers and from the waist up look sort of skinny. I like that I can buy those meshy Calvin Klein sports bras that offer no support whatsoever and are really just two triangles of fabric held together by string. Best of all, I know, for certain, that my breasts will never hang over my belt like the dinner ladies’ at school used to. But I sort of feel sad that my sons will never be squished to my breasts in a maternal way. When they get dumped my only way of consoling them will be with reassuring words, like, ‘Don’t worry, wanna go Nandos?’