It’s one of those fantastic July days when it rains around the clock; not harsh driving thunderous downfalls or slight refreshing showers, rather that monotonous soul-destroying half-arsed drizzle that only ever seems to throw itself across the British Isles. Murray and I duck into a trendy coffee house. I hate trendy coffee houses.

    Murray stirs his coffee thoughtfully for a few moments.

    “Why do you suppose women have two breasts?”

    I swallow a mouthful of tea.

    “Thinking of writing a letter of complaint?” I ask. “What do you care anyway?”

    “I’m just wondering,”says Murray. “It just seems to me that two is a little excessive. Two hands; of course. Likewise two legs. Two buttocks even.”

    “Two buttocks are essential,” I cut in. “Think how difficult it would be to vary fart sounds if you just had the one buttock. We’d never get anything done.”

    Murray nods contemplatively, “Do you think the hole would be to the left or the right of the remaining buttock?”

    I shrug.

    “No,” says Murray, a few creases spreading across his forehead, “it would have to be in the middle of the remaining buttock otherwise we’d lose all of our natural symmetry. That’s why I never liked the Millennium Falcon.”

    “What’s wrong with the Millennium Falcon?”

    “Nothing!” says Murray, holding his hands up, “I just wouldn’t feel comfortable sitting in a cockpit that’s stuck on the side of the ship. I don’t like the idea of only being able to see out of the right hand side of the window.”

    “It is a waste of plexi-glass. They could have put up a photograph of Han Solo and Chewbacca frolicking on the beach on the left hand side.”

    “That’s what I don’t understand about women’s breasts, ” says Murray. “Two breasts; both do exactly the same thing. Why the need for two?”

    I think about this for a moment, “Maybe it’s because men have two hands…”

    Murray nods and finishes his coffee, “Still, it does seem to be a little superfluous.”

    “You,” I say disapprovingly, “are quite possibly the most ungrateful person in the world.”

    “What do you mean?” says Murray, “I love breasts as much as the next man!”

    “But you would be quite happy with a fifty per cent reduction.”

    Murray wags his finger at me, ” I didn’t say that. I just think the spare breast is like a toilet seat cover; it’s soft, comfortable and easy on the eye but completely unnecessary.”

    I finish my tea and play with my spoon, ” I wish I knew how to make mayonnaise.”