I’d like to talk about strings, thongs, hipster, briefs, bikinis, midis, panties, tanga, boyshorts, bloomers, pants – yep. Knickers.

It’s a minefield for us girlies. There are so many types to choose from aren’t there?  We start off as babies wrapped in voluminous white nappies and, when toddlers, pull-up training pants.  Then, at school, huge navy gym knickers are de rigueur (well, they were back in the Dark Ages when I was a student).

Over the next few years, as I grew into a teenager, my knickers shrank, getting progressively smaller until they were no more than a couple of tiny triangles held together with some fragile lace. I entered the zenith of sensuality when dating my current husband, wearing silky sensationally sexy numbers from Agent Provocateur: those never stayed on long to give them their due. However, when I got married, my underwear very very gradually morphed into sensible knickers – from g string to high waisted numbers – roughly on a parity, come to think of it, with the decreasing number of times I was being chased around the boudoir by my husband.

When the day finally came when I couldn’t be bothered to submit to any more painful bikini waxing, my knickers, like my age, increased even more. Those days of skimpy frilly knickers, so beloved of my Husband, are long gone. Now I’m back right where I started in navy gym knickers a la Bridget Jones but without Hugh Grant. These days, if we’re going out somewhere special, I also add matronly shapewear in a (vain) attempt to smooth out my lumps, bumps, fat back and muffin top. By next year, I reckon I will be forced to get undressed in the bathroom so he doesn’t see what I’m wearing. It’s just not fair… men have it so much easier. Their pants don’t have to be lust-inducing, revealing, skimpy or lacy – just clean!