They, the breasts, and not their ‘owner’, are the centre of attention, and are referred to, with alarming regularity, as completely autonomous objects, much as one would refer to suitcases or doughnuts. Constantly fiddled with, adjusted, exposed, covered-up or discussed, contemporary breasts resemble nothing so much as bourgeois pets: idiotic, toothless, yapping dogs with ribbons in their hair and personalized carrying pouches. These milkless objects of bemused scopophilia (frequently and explicitly ‘fake’, as is the fashion) are described over and over as if possessed of their own will and desire, separate from that of their owners (‘Oh no! It slipped out of my top! Again!’).