Thanks for the mammories: Journey from A to D

I AM English and was of the opinion that boob jobs were the domain of British tabloids' Page 3 women, glamour models who were an interesting shade of orange and whose vast busts must have given them considerable back trouble. So I was somewhat surprised to learn that a lot of the women I met when I moved here had had their boobs done.

I AM English and was of the opinion that boob jobs were the domain of British tabloids' Page 3 women, glamour models who were an interesting shade of orange and whose vast busts must have given them considerable back trouble. So I was somewhat surprised to learn that a lot of the women I met when I moved here had had their boobs done.

What possesses a fit and perfectly attractive 30-year-old woman to go under general anaesthetic and have her chest cut open to insert a lump of silicone?

Like many, I had seen the infamous E Entertainment's Doctor Rey ramming a long metal rod from some woman's tummy button up to her bust, prior to inserting a balloon which he then inflates with saline solution. The sight has always left me nauseous.

So how did I end up lying on a bed at my local hospital, holding my best friend's hand, answering the anaesthetist's questions before my R30000 boob job?

I have always been rather fond of my bust, which had grown over-night when I was 13 . It had just about survived three pregnancies, and feeding my hungry boy babies , with only a few minor stretch marks - and a little bit of sag - but I could still pass the pencil test.

However, my foray into the world of cycling proved to be the nail in the coffin. What had been a perfectly respectable full B cup, was now a shadow of its former self - a small A - and droopy to boot. Cycling may be good at getting rid of fat, but there are some areas where one needs a little fat.

So I decided that if I managed to get myself through the Cape Epic, an 800km cycle race, my reward to myself would be to get my boobs back.

"But why?" asked my mother.

Why would I put myself through what I had been warned would be excruciating agony?

"Bodies change," she said.

Post Epic, my surgeon described me as "scrawny". Not a word a woman who has always had to watch her weight would ever use to describe herself - was this not enough?

Was I lacking self-esteem? No. I wanted to wear a dress and have something with which to fill it . I liked having a cleavage.

But as my bed was wheeled into the operating theatre, I was hit by a wave of panic. I had been told by many that my surgeon was the best, and he is a fellow cyclist, which gave me a feeling of comfort, but still, what on Earth was I doing?

My three small boys need me. Surely my role as mother was more important than my desire to have a D cup? What if I died in my quest for bigger boobs?

The theatre was terrifying; clinical does not begin to describe it. It was horribly bright and filled with metal, and what looked like instruments of torture.

I realise that function takes priority over looks here, but could the doctors not make it a more gentle environment? Do they not realise mere mortals lie there wondering if this space is the last thing we see before we enter the hereafter?

I knew it was going to be painful when I woke up. It was - very. But I was also appalled. We had discussed size; but what had he done? I was enormous. I was positively pornographic, and the left one was larger than the right. I had revolting tubes coming out from under my novelty bust, draining excess blood. It was beyond disgusting. Had I made the biggest mistake of my life?

I spent a very uncomfortable night in hospital. The painkillers were a life-saver, as were the sleeping pills.

The next day the nurse pulled the drains out, and I was free to go home. The first few days were awful, but the mind is a clever thing. It does not really have the capacity to remember pain. So as I look back now, I know it was the worst pain I have ever felt, but I cannot properly describe it.

The hardest part of the recovery was not being able to sleep on my front. I have always slept on my tummy, but for three months I had to lie on my side. Three months later, the magic number, the strange, alien boobs finally felt like mine.

Seven months later, am I glad I went through with it? Yes, I am. Am I filled with a whole new sense of self-esteem and purpose in life? No. (My doctor turns down 50% of people who see him. Plastic surgery has limitations; it can change your body, not your mind.) I like my new boobs very much. They are now a part of me. They are the same size.

They are much softer than at first. They are perky and cute. And I feel like me again, and if that makes me shallow, so be it.