'They're real, and they're spectacular'

I've had these beauties for about 20 years now. They were on their path to greatness as Jim Callaghan's reign at No 10 was coming to an end, and by the time Maggie Thatcher was making regular appearances on Spitting Image, I was officially stacked.

I first realised I had big breasts in, of all places, a fish market. For years, the fishmonger had been showing my buxom aunt marked favouritism. "This is for you," he would say, measuring out what she'd asked for, then, with a wink and a glimpse at her bust, tossing on a few more prawns or an extra cod fillet.

On this particular day, he threw a handful of free prawns on to the pile and, ignoring my aunt, turned his gaze on me. "A little extra nutrition for the growing girl," he said. He stared at me. Holy hell, I said to myself, I have big boobs too! By the time I was 13, I had a C cup, and by the time I was 15, a D. Today, I hover between a 34 and a 36D, depending on whether I'm on the pill, and, disgustingly, how much beer I've been drinking. Either way, they garner their share of attention - wanted or otherwise.

There are times when it all seems quite silly to me, when I look in the mirror and think, what a lot of excitement over two little - OK, enormous - mounds of fat! Then again, there's the occasional moment when I'll pull an old cotton T-shirt out of the dryer and slip it over my head, still warm and quite tight, the name of my old university straining across my front. And if I should happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I can't help but think of Teri Hatcher's line in that old Seinfeld episode: "They're real, and they're spectacular."

I know men like to think that women lie around all day touching and staring at their breasts. Well, every once in a while, in fact, we do. But aside from the odd afternoon interlude, most women don't find their own breasts especially sexual. Our breasts kind of have two - well, four - personalities. There is How We See Them. And then there is How Men See Them.

How We See Them
As fashion accessories. When I buy a dress, I suppose I think about how my breasts look in it. But I don't consciously think, "Wow, this is going to make all the men in the room want me," so much as, "How will it offset my best feature?" I know what you're thinking: nothing low-cut was ever purchased in innocence. I swear to you, my breasts and I, we never conspire. We're just trying to look our best. I feel about my breasts the way Audrey Hepburn felt about her neck. They're just part of my outfit, along with the right shoes, the right tights, the right earrings. All of which, of course, means nothing when confronted with...

How Men See Them
...which would be as the very focal point of the entire world. The male gaze flies right past all my painstaking attempts to craft my precious individual style and makes a beeline for the bubbies.

On the one hand, this is not so bad. I have worn the same tasteful yet cleavage-enhancing black dress to every party I've been to for three years. I've thought about buying a new one, but who would notice? Think: who at your Christmas Day dinner table will complain about mashed potatoes or sprouts when your bird is so plump and juicy, your stuffing so fluffy and perfectly seasoned? I'm not always the best-looking or most sought-after girl at the party. But I always look appropriately festive, men tell me that I look nice, and if you ever spot someone waving a tenner at the barman to get his attention... chances are that somebody isn't me.

The downside of all this, of course, is that many potentially fascinating conversations get lost somewhere inside my plunging neckline. For a while I tried wearing necklaces - I read in a women's magazine (a dubious source of information on any topic other than osteoporosis) that this would "draw the eye upward". Unfortunately, it merely provided an excuse for men's eyes to linger in this general area: "Hey, is that a necklace? It's nice - where did you get it?" "America." "I've never been to America, but the longer I look at your necklace, you know, the more I feel I have."

My advice for you men, should you find yourself in conversation with an amply endowed female, is to practice restraint. It's not that we mind you looking at our breasts; it's just that seeing you do it is creepy. The stare, obviously, is bad, and the quick, subtle glance is never as quick or subtle as you hope. Like students of the Alexander technique, perhaps you could visualise that a string has been attached to the top of your head, pulling it up, up, up straight when you're talking to a comely lass. Or try using your powers of reconnaissance; stare sideways at a woman while you're talking to another man, and then, later, when you manage to start up a conversation with her, you can look her in the eye while enjoying the mental picture of her breasts.

This might all sound a little complicated, but it's really not. Have you men ever seen a woman check out your package? Trust me, we do - we're just better at hiding our leers than you are. For those of you who need a little motivation for your behaviour modification, remember that prisoners get time off for good behaviour. You get shirts off.

Of course, it's during the shirts-off phase that the relationship between How We See Them and How Men See Them is at its most interesting. Men are always a bit amazed to see a pair of naked breasts, and their amazement level increases with quality and size. So I come to that naked-from-the-waist-up moment with mixed emotions.

On the one hand, I am so totally over these things that I must pack into sports bras and for which I endure harassment and so on, and the last thing my breasts and I need is more attention. On the other hand, hello, you are beholding items of serious quality, and son, you'd better recognise it.

If this sounds like one more damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't women rule to you men, I apologise. I have always been a fan of the quick, sincere compliment. ("Whoa, nice tits," is not what I have in mind. "Wow, you have gorgeous breasts," is more like it, but don't try to say that to me, because I will then know that you read this article and have been stalking me ever since.) Living every day with these things, we tend to forget how interesting and sexy they are to people who don't live with them, and it's nice to be reminded.

That takes care of the talking part. As to what you men should do, well, it's really a matter of personal taste. I was with a group of women lately, and one woman was complaining that she wished her boyfriend would touch her breasts more when they had sex. Her friend made a face and said her boyfriend was much, much too fixated on hers - she wanted a short visit, and then expected him to move on to the business at hand. I suggested that they swap boyfriends. This was clearly not an option. If you ask most women what they like, they will be more than happy to tell you.

After 20 years of having big breasts, I look down at them and ask, "What have you done for me lately?" I do get to walk around as the proud owner of these things that women want and men want to touch. On bad days, when I'm heartbroken, or just plain broke, I have consoled myself with this fact. (Yes, I do know that's a bit sad.)

I'm aware of the preconception that women with big breasts can coast through life unchecked, but that hasn't been my experience. I haven't got as much free fish as I once thought I would. Car-hire reps (unless they've been sniffing glue) don't neglect to charge me when I scratch the Ford Mondeo. When I speed, the police don't just wave me on and tell me to be careful, they give me a ticket just like everyone else. I get the same amount of bad news and good news everyone else gets; it's just that whoever delivers it often does so staring at my boobs.

Still, even though women and men - possessors and obsessors - don't see breasts the same way, our two world-views can probably coexist. We women need to remember that what we take for granted are two of your main reasons for living. You men need to remember that breasts are flesh and blood, not Fisher-Price toys. If things go well, maybe we can make a deal. We'll wear nothing but low-cut tops... if you promise to listen to everything we say when we're wearing them.

· A version of this article will appear in the March edition of Men's Health magazine, out next week.

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