Exposure to the 'woman's division' a serious topic

Too late, I realised they were not taking my concerns seriously.

The fact they kept pulling down the necks of their T-shirts, exposing their bras and shrieking "You've been cleavaged!" should have been a clue.

There was no excuse for the Murchison-dwelling sisters' behaviour.

The pair of them rarely drink anything stronger than tea or coffee.

I had been trying to promote a serious discussion about cleavage, or as one of my friends quaintly puts it "the woman's division" (nothing to do with Federated Farmers who I hope confine themselves to consideration of animals with cloven hooves).

There is a problem, I tried to tell them, with women who do not seem to recognise the discomfort they cause when they expose what dear old Mark Prebble would have called an "embarrassingly large amount of breast".

The former top civil servant made a fool of himself when he said this about former boss of Work and Income Christine Rankin.

It is hard to find a photo of her with any hint of breast showing - we all knew luscious legs and earrings likely to overheat any airport metal detector were her trademarks.

My observation is that in the past couple of years, there has been increasing enthusiasm for the upper garments of women of all ages and shapes to overfloweth in any setting.

Wobbly, firm, raddled, wrinkly it hasn't seemed to matter.

An Auckland friend confided recently she had found the decolletage of a well-endowed employee disquieting.

Business discussions were difficult when you were constantly on tenterhooks that any movement slightly too far might reveal all, she said, and, if as a woman she found it awkward, how hard would it be for men? She did eventually discuss the matter with her worker, suggesting her attire was not appropriate, but it was not easy.

Her theory was that some larger women, knowing the full-length mirror was not their friend, used plunging necklines to draw attention away from the other parts of their figures which might be regarded as less attractive (fat and ugly, in other words).

Is it some childish backlash at our exposure to the rear view cleavage protruding from many men in recent years (mostly through the wearing of such low-slung trousers that gravity eventually makes it inevitable)? Is it fashion? Now that we have the bra technology to push anyone's boobs up to their chins, we must use it.

Being "cleavaged", as the sisters so delicately dubbed it, can make you feel uneasy and anxious about the immediate future.

It confronts you with something you don't understand, and you are drawn to look even when it might not be a pleasant sight.

Whatever the reason for the rise of the cleavage, the Murchison-dwelling sisters and I agreed that we didn't have a decent/indecent woman's division between us.

We thought of consulting the Auckland-dwelling sister, who has been blessed by the breast fairy, but feared we might succumb to cleavage envy .

After enduring several of the other sisters' "you've been cleavaged" moments, I changed the subject.

It is no fun not being taken seriously.

Ask all those concerned about the proposed closure of the Phoenix Centre.

It only took me to page four of the 49-page independent evaluation of the centre to wonder at the report's value.

The section on limitations noted the short-term nature of the information being assessed and that it did not cover consumer satisfaction or student views about the programme and its effect on them and their families.

There was also no cost analysis of the programme, it said.

Funny then that in its recommendations, the report says there is a need for the centre to demonstrate it provides a more cost-effective service than mainstream Ministry of Education Group Special Education services.

How would anyone know whether it does now? The report did not recommend closure of the centre.

Rather, it saw a need for a change in focus, better record keeping, more staff training and a programme of consultation with the wider school community and agencies to see how it might work more effectively.

What happened to those ideas? It is easy to have unrealistic notions about success in programmes such as the centre's.

Anyone familiar with the sorts of pupils who go there would be wise enough to know that in many cases the slightest improvement in their behaviour is a cause for dancing in the streets.

And what is to happen to pupils needing intervention (and their long-suffering class-mates and teachers needing relief from them) while someone sorts out what the waffly promises of future help mean? The Murchison-dwelling sisters would have something to shriek on the matter, with accompanying actions, I am sure, but perhaps that's best left to the imagination.

• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.