Born-again women call shots

BREASTS are in. In their January issues, two leading women's magazines have run articles by men with extreme mammary fixations, and the gist is much the same. Big, small, lop-sided or whatever, boobs are divine as long as they're the real thing and not nasty, feel-bad implants.

Fashion editors will nod sagely, for isn't it just so with today's clothes? Absolutely. As a new year dawns, you can rest assured that two warm and yielding guidelines will see you comfortably through the coming seasons: Anything Goes and Natural Is Best.

Long or short? Layered or lean? De-constructed or retro? Spare us, please. This is the age of the born-again woman; she who calls the shots and can find pity in her heart for those sad addicts who rush to Paris for a fix twice a year, often with fatal results.

In case they haven't noticed, the dark ages are over. Once the tyrants merely had to bark ''A-line'' or ''body-conscious'' and, overnight, millions turned into tents or hookers. Nowadays, they mumble ''grunge'' and go to the cleaners. New York's Marc Jacobs, credited with launching that pathetic fad, did.

Never be complacent.

''We can no longer dictate to women,'' say Karl and Giorgio and Calvin, then do something sneaky like flog boring white shorts at prices designed to leave your face the same non-colour.

Naturally you didn't fall for that one. Just like you won't take the bait in the spring when the Japanese Revival arrives with a whole new rag-bag of frayed, shredded, crumpled eccentricities in colours best reserved for a wake. Remember, it's shameful to mock bag-ladies and the terminally ill.