Big breasts but I'm no bimbo

So, Eva Herzigova has dieted her boobs away. Well, bully for her. The model who made her name as the Wonderbra girl is now delighted to be free of the big boobs which caused such a stir when they first appeared on billboards back in 1994.

Apparently, she was sick of being perceived as nothing but a walking cleavage - so it's Bye-Bye Boys and Hello Androgyny. It's a sad indictment of our society when a woman feels she has to shrink away the very things that mark her out as female.

And it's not just men who will mourn the passing of the Herzigova breasts. As a big-breasted woman, I too am disappointed by their demise. I can't help but take it personally that something I hold so dear should be hailed as a nuisance. In my opinion, breasts should be out and proud.

I love my breasts. They're the best bits of my body and I would be less of a woman without them. Normally, I'm a 34DD and I believe that's pretty near perfect. Mine appeared, quite noticeably, when I was 17. At first, I felt embarrassed and awkward. I covered them up with oversized sweatshirts until a boyfriend pointed out that it was a crime to hide such a lovely sight. I quickly discovered Lycra, V-necked tops and underwired bras, and I've never looked back.

In fact, big boobs look better in small clothes. Hiding them under voluminous tops will only make a girl look like Ann Widdecombe, but figurehugging garments not only accentuate the bust, they also make the waist look smaller.

Over the years, my boobs have become as much a part of my personality as my brain. Friends and colleagues feel comfortable talking to them or about them. Boyfriends have always had pet names for them - "dumplings" and "the puppies" being my favourites. I don't mind. Huge, melon-like boobies are friendly, comforting and amusing. They've long been part of the British seasidepostcard sense of humour. Poor Eva must have been taking her breasts far too seriously.

Of course, there are downsides. Entire fashion trends have passed me by because I can't leave home without a bra - one-shouldered tops, boob tubes and backless dresses are not for me. Dainty little wisps of underwear never come in my size. And I've never gone jogging (far too painful).

And then there's the unwanted male attention. Strange men of all ages and walks of life can't help but stare. Girls with long, shapely legs, though, or pert bottoms get the same treatment. And I can honestly say that most men seem able to accept that it's possible for me to have large breasts, blonde hair, an MA, a sense of humour and a career as a novelist simultaneously. I'm sure my husband noticed my boobs before he'd even spoken to me, but that's not the reason he married me.

To be honest, it's women who have a problem with my breasts. It's as if my less well-endowed sisters don't want me to have "all that and brains too". They make catty remarks. They say I can't go out "in that". They suggest I shouldn't go topless on holiday.

Recently, my relationship with my boobs has changed. As a breast-feeding mother of a new baby, my perfect assets swelled to a G cup. Gravity took its toll, and for a few weeks I mourned the figure I'd cherished. But as my daughter flourished on my breast milk, I cared less about their sudden descent.

They are now almost back to normal, save for a few stretch marks and an extra cup size or two. It's a shame. I'll miss their natural perkiness, but, Eva, take note: that's what Wonderbras are for. My nine-month-old baby often falls asleep with her cheek resting on my boobs. Like her father, she's a fan of big breasts. And they make great pillows.