You know that plastic surgery I was talking about saving up for the other day? Turns out there's no need. If I go and tell a doctor that my crows feet are causing severe emotional distress and my wrinkles are plunging me into fits of depression, I can probably get a face lift on the public dime.
Or at least that's what I'm led to believe based on this article about a Yorkshire woman who convinced a doctor to let her get a boob job through the public health system by bursting into tears in his office and telling him that her A cups were ruining her life.
Yeah, I couldn't believe it either.
Now I'm a huge supporter of public health systems. I believe that everyone should have access to medical assistance when they need it, regardless of whether they can pay. And I know that sometimes cosmetic procedures are important if the person's quality of life is affected by certain aspects of their appearance. But when some twenty two year old decides that she needs a boob job because she wants to be the next Katie Price (her words, not mine), I hardly think that fits under the definition of necessary medical attention!
Apparently this girl is so happy with the results of her surgery that she went out and got brown highlights in her hair, started collecting Louis Vuitton bags, and has bought herself one of those awful little yappy dogs that I'm always tempted to kick. Oh yeah, she really sounds like she's got her priorities sorted.
She didn't even have the grace to keep up the appearance of it being purely about correcting what she claimed as a serious physical malformity! Oh no, instead she just went on and on about how she was going to leave her two kids, aged five and two, with her parents so she can go to London and try to become a model.
Oh sweetheart ... if all it took to be a model was a pair of double D's, I'd be a model. But I ain't, and it's unlikely you will be either.