TRUE-LIFE
I’ve had the best life with my ZZZ-cup boobs
Annie Hawkins-Turner, 67
Sliding into my assigned seat in the classroom, I shifted uncomfortably. Leant as far back as I could in my chair.
But my boobs still pushed painfully against the wooden desk in front of me.
The seat was attached, so I couldn’t even scoot back to give me more room.
It was 1968, and at just 11 years old, my chest was already so large that even sitting down to do schoolwork was a struggle.
‘I need a different chair,’ I asked awkwardly at the end of class.
Thankfully my teacher listened and helped.
If only all the problems my chest caused were so easily solved…
They’d started sprouting when I was 9.
Other girls don’t look quite like me, I realised.
And though I was just a kid, men would assume I was older and would chat me up in the street.
By the time my wonderful mum took me bra shopping, I was already a 36D.
‘Blimey,’ she said. No one else in the family had the same problem so it 10 was a bit of a surprise.
In school, my oversized chest made other things difficult too.
‘You better sit this one,’ my PE teacher would say.
I’d watch from the sidelines as my classmates jogged around the running track. They worried I’d hurt my back.
Sliding into a cosy booth in a restaurant was such a faff that my family always requested tables instead.
I always assumed the girls in my class would catch up.
But I hit 13, and my breasts still grew.
And grew... and grew.
Even in my late teens, they showed no sign of slowing down.
People would stare at me in the street.
Whisper behind their hands in supermarkets.
‘You can look at having a reduction in the future,’ the doc said.
But, although it made some things tricky, I wasn’t self-conscious about my boobs. Didn’t even suffer from back pain.
Why fix something that wasn’t broken?
I don’t know who I’d be with smaller breasts
When I first started dating, I worried that men were only interested in me because of my chest.
But in 1991, aged 34, I met Alan, an air force officer. He made me feel beautiful. I was already a mum to Darius, 3, and Clara, then 1.
Alan treated us all like royalty.
When we married in August 1997, it was the happiest day of my life.
Not long after, Alan and I came across a competition a specialist lads’ mag was running to find the woman with the largest breasts.
‘I’ll take some snaps of you and we can submit them,’ Alan grinned.
Wanting to show off my bountiful bosom, I stripped down to my underwear and posed.
Giggling, as Alan clicked away on his camera.
‘We need to give you a stage name,’ he
