Shelly Horton, a 34-year-old newspaper columnist is a 16DD.
As Year 12 sports captain, it was supposed to be my moment of triumph. There I was, powering ahead of everyone in the 100-metre race and about to cross the finish line when I spotted a group of four boys at the other side of the track, mesmerised by my bouncing breasts. As I crossed the line, smarting with shame and crippled by the weight of their stares, I kept on running, straight into the toilets. I closed the door, put my head in my hands and sobbed for the next five minutes.
There's always one early developer and at my school, that was me. In Year Six, I suddenly developed these huge, adult-sized breasts, even though I was still a child. I hated the fact they made me stand out at a time when no-one wants to be different. The teasing was more taunting than sexual, but the outside attention was enough to make my body a source of embarrassment, even punishment.
At university I worked in a bar, where men would order rum and cokes while staring straight at my breasts! But by then, I'd learnt to defend myself and would wisecrack, "You know what, they don't take the order, I do."
It was only when I hit my 20s that I began to see being buxom as a positive. People can be quick to label you as the big-breasted bimbo, but I've avoided that cliché by working extra hard. Now, I embrace my body, wearing wrap dresses that accentuate my figure. Having a bigger cleavage is part of who I am.
Lisa Elliot, a 38-year-old executive assistant, is a size 12B
When I was 14, my dad said to me, "Lisa, I've got a joke to tell you - you'll laugh your tits off." Then he paused. "Oh, you already heard it," and walked through the door, chuckling. That was my house, where everything was all in good fun, though not always for me. I have been a bra size 12A (I've gone up a cup size recently after putting on weight) for the majority of my adult life. Mum was a size 16D, so people would say, "What happened to you?"
At school, I always felt different. It was the girls with breasts who got attention from boys and, as a result, I started to wear baggy jeans that disguised my boyish frame. After I left school, I became more defiant, refusing to wear bras. My attitude was: "What's the point when there's nothing to put in them?" I'd wear tiny singlets and tight T-shirts, and insist on taking my top off on the beach - so that everyone could see what I had. It was my way of rebelling. I only bought my first proper bra when I was 32. It was a teenage bikini bra and my mum took me to the store to buy it, joking most daughters had undertaken this rite of passage in their teens, rather than their 30s.
Having a tiny chest meant my self-esteem suffered. When things didn't work out with boyfriends, I attributed it to having no breasts. When one of my friends got implants, I considered it, too. But then I tried on a push-up bra to see what I would look like with a cleavage, and the effect didn't look right on me.Over the years I've learnt to love what I've got. I can sleep on my stomach and my breasts are still as perky as when I was 18. It took years for me to recognise that small breasts can be just as sexy as a bigger cleavage, and the moment I did, I met my partner. He loves my small boobs, and so do I.