We may perhaps reach the pinnacle of adulthood when we finally realize just how little we really know, but this I know for sure: I've inherited my grandmother's breasts.
You see, for as long as I can remember, my brother and I (and almost our entire circle of friends for that matter), got a good (and I use that word loosely, so to speak) look at my grandmother's boobs. I'll never forget that look on my friend Lynette's face when Granny hit the Aquarena showers and quite nonchalantly stripped all the way down to wash the chlorine out of her hair (and bathing suit, naturally). We tried our very best not to look of course but, despite our best efforts, we were drawn like a moth to a flame (or 'double flames', as the case may be).
Back on the home front, the phone would invariably ring when Granny was in a state of undress (to get technical), and out she'd bounce- 'flop', really- blissfully oblivious to the mortified expressions of my brother and I.
To her credit, to this day (at age ninety) Granny boldly continues to bounce confidently 'where no boobs have bounced before'... and I bravely endeavour to follow in her bra straps.