Jehovah's Fitness.

I know a guy who's a Jehovah's Witness. He has signed a form where he's not allowed to give blood or organs for any sort of transplant. He hasn't signed the part that states he can't receive the same from others. Charming. 

This morning, I had another charming experience with the JW. At 9am. On my day off. After I'd been out and had received very little sleep. 

'Hi, I'm Anna, I was wondering if you had a moment?' came the voice through the entry phone. 'I'm a Jehovah's Witness.'

'Bugger off,' yelled I, Bridget Jones stylee.

I returned to bed but soon resigned myself to the fact that the night's sleep was well and truly over. 

With this in mind, I decided it would be a good idea to get up, so I went to the window and opened the curtains. What I beheld will stay with me for life: two young women, beautifully blonde, slim and coiffed, bent over an entry phone doing their best to convert another resident. These Jehovah's Witnesses were smokin' hot.

I stared. I stared some more. Frankly, and perhaps misguidedly, I had expected an old woman, covered up from head to toe and wielding a massive bible.

There was only one thing these girls were wielding, and that was sex appeal.

They finished their conversation and turned to leave, and it took all I had to stop myself from shouting 'Anna, come back, tell me your secrets, let me be on your team.'

This time, I managed to stop myself, but I tell you what: I'm thinking about it. And when Anna comes back, I will certainly let her talk to me.

Even if just so I can ask her where she gets her hair done.

Lillie x

Getting lucky in Primark.

Firstly, most humble apologies for my apparent dissappearance since my last Blog. Frankly, I was so blown away by the hilarity and wittisim of my last entry (joke) that I didn't feel I could write anything to live up to it.
That is, until I went to Primark.
I don't know a girl who doesn't like Primark. Or, I should say, I don't anymore. For (I'm sorry to admit) I used to be that girl. I liked the bags and shoes - sure, who doesn't? But when it came to clothes I'm afraid I wasn't happy.
So frequent was the time that I saw a pretty summer dress on a friend and was told 'it was from Primark,  £6, SUCH a bargain!' and then was faced with the diasppointment of trying on the dress and not being able to fit in even one boob that I started to give Primark a wide berth.
'They don't know how to dress the real woman,' I muttered. 'Primark clothes only look good on stick insects and plastic mannequins,' I fumed.
And I was right.
Until now.
This weeked, faced with lots of free time, not much money and a desperate need for accessories, I decided to give Primark one more try. Could it have been the best decision I ever made?
As I walked in, I nearly fainted with shock at what lay before more: A whole section of stretchy body-con dresses to suit every shape in almost every colour of the rainbow; rails upon rails of cute playsuits sinched at the waist but slightly baggier on top and bottom in order to accomodate a more womanly physique; even lovely chiffon shirts (which granted, don't do up but look bloody good undone over the aforementioned body-con dresses.)
As hurridley as I could (and I was quick - my boyfriend wasn't in the mood to shop and he wouldn't wait outside forever) I gathered up every item I could carry and rushed to the till. I didn't even try it on.
I spent £150.
As you can imagine, in Primark - that equals a LOT of items.
In the car on the way home, the dread started to creep in. What have I done? I thought.
I needn't have worried.
When I got home I tried on my purchases and, to my surprise, each and every one fitted perfectly. I couldn't have been happier if I'd have been bought a puppy, won the lottery and been proposed to all in one day.
My only regret is that I didn't buy more.
So, big boobers, listen up. This phenomenon will not last long, and soon summer will bring the return of the dreaded floaty £6 dress.
But while it does, make sure you get yourselves down to Primark and shop.
It will be the best thing you ever do.

Lillie x

Channelling my inner Yogi...

Today is Monday, which means only one thing: time to try Bikram Yoga (new week, new start and all that.)
I have been wanting to try Bikram for some time now, but have been putting it off, under the impression that it would be truly, truly hideous.
For those of you who are not familiar with the trend that is 'Hot' or 'Bikram' Yoga, it is in essence the practice of Yoga in an unbearably hot room, the point of which being (as far as I'm aware) to sweat as much as is humanly possible in order to burn as many calories as you can.*
Today I decided it was time for me to find out for myself what the fuss is about. Armed with a towel, some tiny shorts, a t-shirt and my (not so tiny) sports bra, I made the journey to Kentish Town 'Bikram North.'
I was required to take off my shoes before entering.
I did.
The clientèle were pleasantly surprising. In my ignorance, I had expected (no offence) the place to be full of tree hugging weirdos. While I won't deny there were a couple of the aforementioned, the majority of attendees were pretty much 'normal.' There were young women, old women, fat women, thin women, women wearing bikinis, young men, old men, fat men, thin men  and even a middle aged man wearing a bikini.
Like I said, there were a couple of weird ones...
The class itself, whilst not entirely un-hideous, was a lot better than expected. I did sweat, a LOT, but because it was so hot I felt absolutely no guilt whatsoever about taking frequent breaks to sit on the floor. Which I did. Frequently. So, to my surprise, did quite a few of the skinny tree hugging types who I'd expected to be bendier than a bendy pencil. Fraudsters.
One of the main reasons I decided to try Yoga was because of its stationary, non boob bounce inducing nature. True, this was quite successful. There was less jiggling up and down than on your average bus journey. There were however a couple of  'just lie down on your front and put your arms underneath your body' poses that proved logistically impossible.
Which was a shame, as they looked quite relaxing.
For me, other negatives included the smell (pretty gross) and several splatterings-with-sweat from nearby middle-aged male Yogis. I think some may have even been from the man in the bikini. I'm not sure it's the most hygienic of sports.
I also could have done with a bit more help from the instructor, as most of the time I had literally no idea what I was doing and far from being at peace, spent much of the lesson in a state of 'am I doing my body more harm than good in this god-awful weird position?' anxiety.
On the whole though, I'm startled to admit that I quite enjoyed the experience - particularly the fairy lights and the sweet chai tea they served afterwards. And my chest certainly felt a lot less sore than after the bouncy delights of a jog.
Verdict: Bikram yoga is hideously hot and slightly gross but as long as you sit down when you need a break and drink lots of water, I think it is a good option for a BBB (big boobed babe.**)
I like to think I will start going regularly.
I probably won't.


*Disclaimer - I am NOT an expert and am sure this is in fact not the point. I am merely attempting to be witty and acerbic.
**To refer to oneself as a 'babe:' arrogant? Discuss.

Hit the ground running.

Today was a Sunday. I was woken by the winter sun, which put me in a fantastic mood. With this in mind, I decided it would be a good day for a run.
It wasn't.
With freezing February air hitting my lungs, I struggled through 20 mins of boob bouncing, back breaking jogging until I gave up and walked, which was much more pleasant. Running can be painful for anyone. However, as I'm sure many top heavy ladies will appreciate, running-with-boobs adds to the pain ten-fold. The motivation to go for a run or do any kind of exercise, particularly in the winter, is something hard to achieve for anyone. Add a stone of weight to the front of your chest, pounding up and down on your shoulders, and you've got yourself even more of an excuse. I'm genuinely not even sure that r-w-b doesn't cause more problems than it does good.
Not to mention, I'm sure it looks ridiculous. The last thing you want when sweating and in your running gear with your t**s bouncing all over the place is perverts staring at your chest. Unfortunately, these factors seem to be the very thing that encourage more, much more, of said staring from said perverts. Unwelcome comments from aforementioned perverts are also all the more unwelcome and all the more frequent when out on a jog.
Tomorrow, I'm going to Yoga.

Blog 1. Of many.

I've realised that, while experiences I've had in my past are what motivated me to start this blog, if I simply bang on about past proportional problems (nb: alliteration) I will just sound like a bitter twisted moany idiot. Which is not what I want, even though I am indeed slightly bitter and twisted about this and, as you will infer from the general tone of blogs to come, extremely moany.
With this in mind, I have decided that each day I will report on relevant experiences in order that hopefully you (the readers) will get an idea of what it's like to live the life of a BB (big boob.)
I also welcome any comments and reports from fellow big boobers, as I do also from any small/mediumsize/fake boobers who want to add their tuppence-worth.
I also want to think of a pity inducing slogan along the lines of  'Massive boobs are for life, not just for Christmas' but way more catchy, clever and monumentally more witty . So get thinking.

About Me

I'm a 25 year old woman with a 30H bust.
I'm here to tell you why that is not as good as it sounds.