I blame it on the girl from my short-trouser days, Cynthia Brown. One minute she was flat, the next she had two bumps on the front.
No, I blame it on the Wicked Lady, Margaret Lockwood, whose cleavage complete with beauty spot, got me and James Mason all of a dither.
No, I blame it on Howard Hughes and that cantilevered bra he slapped on Jane Russell in The Outlaw, giving her twin peaks that would put your eye out.
Whatever the cause, I quickly joined my fellow-pimplies in regarding the female bosom as an object of the greatest desire.
African women are amused by the western male's obsession with breasts. For an African woman, they are just food factories: the word for breast in Swahili is the same as the word for milk.
When you come to think of it, those two lumps aren't much to write home about, not that I would have written home about them.
But - and this is what really makes the whole obsession worthwhile - women are aware of our passion for their busty bits and so do everything they can to draw our attention to them. Until the burn-your-bra movement started, and then the world went flat for a while. But not for long, thank goodness. After all, if you've got it, flaunt it, as they say.
I only wish I had something flauntable. Well, I do have rather nice white knuckles right now...