In it was an essay about small breasts, containing references to optimum sexual positions as advocated by an interfering almost mother-in-law.
Ephron might as well have been describing the position of the moons orbiting Jupiter, but I remember feeling as though I’d stumbled upon a secret society of people like me. My antennae were primed for role models, but sadly few came until the mid 1990s when the waifish Kate Moss heralded the arrival of heroin chic.
As a flat-chested teenager in the 1980s, I was at least spared those pressures. It wasn’t so much the occasional playground taunts of 'flat as a pancake’ as a yearning for a rite of passage that failed to materialise.
Friends would tell impossibly glamorous tales of being measured in the M&S bra department, but my call-up never came.
I sometimes wonder how I would manage if I were a teenager today, in an age when silicone breasts have reached the suburbs.
Would I be destined for a stealth boob job – and a faulty implant scare – before I could fill out my Ucas form?
Welcome to Arthur Murray Dance Studio of Narberth and Paoli, PA.proudly serving Philadelphia and its suburbs.
We are experts at teachingbeginners and we specialize in allforms of Ballroom and Social Dancing. Leafing through a teenage diary, I’m surprised by how seriously I took the whole thing.I wrote about how I could never blow up balloons, how I couldn’t get past the small tight-ball stage to the smooth expanding lightness, and how my breasts were the same.Once, on a sticky dance floor, a boy lurched over and said, 'Why haven’t you got any tits? Another time, when asked by the doctor whether I had checked my breasts for lumps, I had to sheepishly admit that I’d assumed they’d be too small to warrant it. In the generation-X film Singles, Bridget Fonda, contemplating a breast enlargement, asks Matt Dillon whether he wishes hers were bigger. On a bad hair day – or bad face day – I can’t wheel out the big guns, as it were.I was a 16-year-old balloon that had never blown up, a damp squib, full of pent-up tension, seeking an outlet, but unable to channel itself. I probably needed to get out more, instead of reading books.But books helped, particularly Nora Ephron’s Crazy Salad, which I raided from my mother’s bedside table.