Under bust crumbage

My late father once said, ‘Fat Tart, you’d laugh if your granny’s ass was on fire’. I have to admit that the thought did make me titter, but take it from me, had my granny’s ass actually have been on fire I would have done my best to extinguish it, although I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t have laughed whilst doing so. I wouldn’t say that my life has been blighted by my frequent, inappropriate bouts of the giggles but this trait has made many professional and social occasions difficult and I often need to study my feet or leave the room unexpectedly. I even had to leave a burial once, it’s an affliction.

There have been many warning signs on the road to obesity that I have ignored. I have always been busty, that is since I was about eleven years old. Aged eleven I had a thirty six inch bust and a twenty three inch waist. I was mortified but you learn to accept what you’ve been given don’t you? I have long lived with the knowledge that if an item of food slips off my fork or spoon, or out of my hand on the way to my mouth it will land on my chest, there’s no hiding it. Incidentally this is partly compensated for by the convenient shelf a large bust affords on which you can rest a plate. Anyhow, fast forward to more recent times. I expect to have crumbs on my chest as a matter of course when eating crumbly food stuffs, While having afternoon tea in a charming bakery I noticed that both my sister and I had managed to accumulate crumbs on the underside of our bosoms. This dear reader was due to our enormous breasts occasionally brushing over or indeed resting on the table which we had also littered with crumbs. This previously unnoticed phenomenon of ‘under bust crumbing’ really should have been a stark warning of unacceptable levels of tittage but the warning was lost amongst our screams of laughter.