If you have been keeping abreast of the news, you'd probably have noticed that breasts have been hitting the headlines at a brisk rate of late.

Last month, American plus-sized fashion brand Lane Bryant's latest lingerie ad drew controversy when two United States television networks refused to air it, allegedly because the amount of cleavage shown on the size-16 model was too racy.

Critics accused ABC and Fox networks of double standards, pointing out that prime-time drama series like Desperate Housewives and Victoria's Secret ads often feature ample cleavage - on thin women.

Meanwhile, in central Massachusetts, a school official proposed banning exposed cleavage in Tantasque Regional Junior High in order to minimise classroom distractions. The proposition was shot down in a 7-5 vote.

Other kookier news items seem destined to fade quickly from mammary, oops, memory.

A Facebook campaign called on women to show off their cleavage on April 26 in order to rubbish an Iranian cleric's comment that women dressing immodestly 'lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes'.

Some 200,000 women pledged their support for Boobquake but it backfired when a tremor measuring 6.5 on the Richter scale hit Taiwan.

Oh, and a 200-year-old padded bra, dubbed 'the world's oldest Wonderbra', has been found in storage at the Science Museum in London. According to the museum's assistant curator, it proved that 'women have been looking to boost their cleavage for hundreds of years'. How's that for a Victorian Secret?

All this hubbub about bosoms just goes to show how afraid society has become of breasts and cleavage.

After all, for many seasons now, fashion designers and stylists alike have deemed in-your-face mounds and valleys as too trashy for runways and red carpets alike.

Spring/summer 2010 trends remain all about revealing miles of thigh in micro-mini skirts, balanced by demure blouses. And the current vogue for buttoned-up military and utilitarian chic means that there is little place for excessive cleavage.

The problem is compounded by the gradual disappearance of lad mags from news stands, due to dwindling readership.

Say what you want about those skimpily clad women on such magazine covers, confronting you with their racks on the racks. At least they served as a balancing counterpoint to the anorexic, flat-chested fashion model.

As London's The Guardian newspaper's style columnist Hadley Freeman puts it: 'Breasts and fashion go together like snow and train schedules: the latter just doesn't take the existence of the former into account, despite the high likelihood that it will encounter it at some point.'

Arguing that fashion's disconnect with breasts and cleavage is commendable for not caring about what straight men find attractive about woman, she concludes with barbed humour: 'I would applaud the industry's disinterest in what straight men think but unfortunately my Balmain jacket is so restrictive around the chest that I can't actually raise my arms to clap.'

As a woman who has also found it impossible to button up my Chanel tuxedo jacket, I have enjoyed a good, but still evolving, relationship with my cleavage.

As a teenager, my cleavage (or lack thereof) was best described as that of a flat plain.

In my 20s, thanks to my mother's insistence on buying me a clutch of Maximizer bras, I 'grew' boobs overnight and developed a respectable valley.

Now, in my 30s, and having experienced motherhood, my chest has undergone a bit of a landslide.

These days, thanks to having to breastfeed my six-month-old son, flashing cleavage to me has become less a matter of sexual power than habitual exposure.

I hadn't realised how much I was taking my cleavage for granted until one night, when I put on a low-cut dress and headed out to the theatre with my husband.

It was an old dress and I was still battling post-natal bulge. The net effect was that it put more of my bosom on display than usual.

But neither of us noticed this. Much later in the evening, my husband took a proper look at me and sheepishly whispered in my ear that my attire was bordering on obscene. Thankfully, the play was a good one and the other patrons had their eyes glued to the stage.

So, really, cleavage is as cleavage does. If you have it, flaunt it. If you don't, fake it. If you're conservative, cover it or look away.

And if fashion is cyclical, perhaps the pendulum is about to swing towards daring, low-cut, gloriously buxom designs once more.

I hope.

This article was first published in Urban, The Straits Times.