Death by hooters

It's official. My tits are lethal.

Maybe it was a fit of marsupial envy which first led me to discover that I could stash my iPod in my bra. Handy for access without breaking stride, and for those stupidly short earbud cables.

Perhaps it was hubris that made me think I could increase my cleavage's handbag potential. Just one more small electrical appliance. Couldn't hurt - could it?

The iPod had the protection of a snazzy leather cover. The mobile phone was naked. The sun was shining. I was glowing. Plugged in to my music I didn't have to worry about hearing the phone ring when my mate called to announce her arrival for our regular skive dahn the Sarf Bank. I could feel it vibrate. And very nice, too.

I forgot about the phone.

Until, that is, several hours later when I remembered to call Babes and announce my imminent departure for home. To my horror, upon retrieval, I found the screen steamed up with perspiration and on the fritz, none of the buttons connecting to anything.

That night I turned it off, removed the battery and prayed for it to dry out and miraculously recover overnight.

It didn't.

This wouldn't have happened with a pen and pencil.

To add insult to injury, the mobile company won't send me another one until I'm due for my upgrade in December 'cause this counts as my fault and I would be stuck with the bill for repairs and I really don't want to argue this one in court. Or anywhere.

The decolletage of doom. The hooters from hell. Luddite breasts. That's me.

The horror. The horror.