Men make many revelations about their bodies in the shower. I could wax lyrical about how many great and wonderful philosophical things come from the shower (plans for the day, a new operatic tune)...no no, I usually just let the water run over my still mostly asleep self and throw soap and shampoo and razor at me until I deem that I'm sufficiently late for work. And I do this all with my eyes closed.

This morning, this lovely sunny Friday morning (ok that's a lie, we've not seen the sun here in Scotland since 1982), I woke with a certain pep.  Wife ok, baby girl ok and life's good. I step lively into the shower, set the dial to warm mist and begin my morning ritual.

Only this time I open my eyes.

Just beneath my neck and attached to my chest I'm confronted with something that closely resembles two peach jellies covered in suds. As I begin to shake, they quiver and tremble just like jellies as well. Something pops in the back of my mind, a distant memory, of teenage fumbling and the new experience of sight and touch with little Mary Rottencrotch from next door.  My hands move up to my chest...

I scream.

My wife burst through the door into the bathroom. "Are you alright?"

I bumble and blurble incomprehensible noises as I drool all over myself. She told me later that I was curled up in the shower in a fetal position, rocking back and forth. The wife, full of concern, turns off the shower and leans forward.

"Honey, are you ok?"

I manage to speak, "I've....got....moobs."

This is a life changing moment for me. My complete and uncontested masculinity has now been challenged by a pair of breasts.  Not ‘pecs', dear reader, but full fledged, needs a bra (or mbra?) tits (or mits?).

I try to think back when these parasitic invaders arrived. I am ex-army and was in special branch, so I've always thought of myself as reasonably fit. Of course, that was in 1993. Now, 14 years later and 987 pies, 4,029 donner kebabs, and too many fish suppers to count, I'm still baffled as to how I grew a pair of tits.

So my wife, whilst laughing in hysterics, helps me to my feet and leads me into the bedroom.

"Stand straight," she commands, "let me see."

She looks with her discerning eye. My wife will know a proper breast when she sees one.  She'll know that these things are and what to do about them. Then she gives my nipple a wee tweak - and giggles.

"You've got moobs," she declares.

"Oh dear God, when did that bloody happen?" I'm directing the question accusingly at God for his sick joke.

"They're cute...and besides - they're puffies," she gleefully taunts.

I slump down to the end of the bed.  Pushups and situps - yes, that's what I'll do. And other some such chest tightening exercises.  I gaze over at my side profile in the mirrored wardrobe. They actually sag.

My wife pats me on the head. "I'll go make you a cup of tea dear," and she leaves.

The birds chirp away outside the window. They're tits, of course - cruel cruel God. He and his buff pectorals are taunting me.

I'm entering the blame stage of my anger and mourning. This couldn't possibly be my fault. I've exercised at least twice since 1993. This is Scotland's fault. Scotland, full of deep-fried Mars bars, haggis, and gravy. I blame you, Scotland. I didn't have these...these breasts when I lived in London.

I put my bathrobe on (I'll call in sick later) and wander downstairs, now feeling my moobs bounce with each step.

My wife hands me a steaming cup of tea.

"How the hell is this supposed to help?" I ask angrily.

"It can't hurt," and she strolls into the kitchen. Of course you're strolling and happy, your husband now has bigger tits than you do.

"What's for dinner tonight?" thinking that surely now salad must be on the menu.

"Steak and ale pie."

Thank fuck - I need some comfort food.