Good news, ladies: boobs are back! Rihanna, who has been nominated fashion’s groundhog, has popped out of her burrow in a low-cut red dress, indicating that we are to have six weeks of “cool cleavage”, “delicious décolletage” and “brilliant boobs” hitting us from all angles. Women everywhere will be unpacking their boobs from under the bed, where they’ve been lying in IKEA plastic containers since November, when boobs were last declared unfashionable by Vogue.
Look, aren’t you glad you took such care in packing them away? Now they’re sitting there, snugly nestled in acid-free paper like two fancy little Turkish delights someone brought back from holiday. Be delicate, now: carefully ease your breasts back on using the shoulder straps provided and firmly place them on your skin. Use the glue given to every woman at the moment of puberty and wait 30 seconds, holding your boobs in place. Et voilà! Your boobs are back on, and chic for the season. Thanks, Rihanna! Thanks, the media!
Oh, hang on. There’s someone who hasn’t got the message, and it’s every single shop and clothes website on the internet. You see, they can’t move as quickly as Rihanna’s whims, the media’s decisions or your ability to get your tits out of the attic. They have to put up with what they have, and what they have this season is billowing embroidered blouses that make your tits look like two grapefruits floating in a pool of jelly, off-the-shoulder tops that you can accessorise with 2in-wide greying bra straps and sack dresses.
You are confused. Your tits firmly fixed back on to your skeleton, you are now unsure of what to do with them. You call over the shop assistant in your local New Look and remind her that your breasts are now fashionable and that her store – her “New Look” – isn’t very new or very current at all, because you can’t fit anything over your nipples here. You even bring up an article on your phone, the one with the picture of Rihanna, the one that proves breasts are now fashionable. She looks confused, mumbles something about the “stockroom” and then reappears at your elbow with a wrap dress. It comes in three alluring and very fashionable colours: teal, olive and aubergine.
You are confused. Your tits firmly fixed back on to your skeleton, you are now unsure of what to do with them
“Look, Lisa,” you say, clocking her name tag. “I know you're only trying to help here and I know you just pulled that out of the maternity section and I appreciate your efforts in trying to do so. And as much as I like wrap dresses, they aren’t fashion. They haven’t been for a long time and they won’t be for a long time.”
She pushes the wrap dress at you, mutely.
“You don’t understand,” you say, growing angry. “My tits are fashion now! My tits deserve fashion.”
She has now piled two wrap dresses, one in olive and one in teal, into your hands. She has given you a changing room tag that has the number two on it.
Suddenly, your muscles begin to expand, and the seams on your clothes begin to burst. “My tits are fashion,” you say again, only now it’s an echoing bellow, one that is making the other customers flee the New Look. You look at Lisa with anguish in your eyes.
“Hulk tits,” you plead. “Hulk fashion.”
You look around and see that you have somehow destroyed the New Look and that you and Lisa are the only ones left, standing amid a pile of crop tops and 1990s slogan T-shirts. Lisa looks at your enormous frame with tears in her eyes and makes one last bid. She hands you a 1950s sundress. It has flower pattern on it not dissimilar to your grandmother’s wedding china.
“Hulk sundress,” she says, kindly. “Hulk flower pattern.”
You begin to calm. Not because you’re happy, but because you realise that getting a chic, tit-friendly outfit on the high street is too much to ask. You accept that you will never be fashion, and that it is time to stop blaming Lisa for this.
“I'll take two,” you say.
You spend the rest of the summer in your flowered sundress. You begin to distrust what tabloids tell you about breasts. You are not fashionable, but you are happy.