I like to think I’m fairly unshockable.
But when my ex sister-in-law dropped into conversation this morning that she’s going into hospital tomorrow to have a boob job, I must admit my mouth dropped open.
I was gobsmacked. On the plus side, it did take my mind off the grinding 2,000 decibel torture that was the first day of half term in a large kids’ indoor play centre for a good while, but even so …
I don’t know how to write this without sounding patronising or rude, so I’ll just say it: I don’t move in the kind of circles where people have breast augmentations. In fact, I think it would be true to say I’ve never known anybody who’s had one.
To me, the type of people who have boob jobs are:
c) Former Big Brother contestants
d) People who star in those American “Real Housewives” programmes.
My SIL, Sarah, is a slim, attractive and glamorous 37-year-old yoga teacher. She lives in a nice house, drives a new car, has several foreign holidays each year and a very active social life. She’s also a single mum with three kids from two different relationships, both of which have broken down and at least one of which was abusive.
All of which may or may not have anything to do with said breast enhancement.
When I recovered my composure, I questioned her about why she wanted to have it done. Just for me, to make me feel more feminine, was her answer. And she said it so sincerely, that I really believe she thought it was true.
But surely, if you want to feel more feminine, you go and buy a floaty dress, a pair of dangly earrings, or some new high heels. You don’t go and spend several thousand pounds on having your body cut open and two sacks of silicone inserted into your chest. Do you?
Call me old-fashioned, but it just doesn’t sit comfortably with me. I came away from our chat feeling really sad for Sarah, and really hoping that she finds whatever it is that she’s looking for. Because I’m sure as hell, it’s not a bloody C cup.