It’s what’s underneath that counts

Looking at the sad state of the bra I dug out of my underwear drawer to wear this morning, I reflected on my undergarments in general.

The bra was reaching the end of what I would consider it’s use-by date – the elastic was in a parlous condition, and I was having to do it up on the tightest row of hooks to get it up to the job.

I remember a colleague telling me (bragging to me) about her daughter who was a doctor who believed that bras had a very short shelf life and ought to be thrown out after six months. I was aghast then and I still am. None of my bras are older than about five years but that’s only because that was when I discovered from an excellent bra-fitter (Farmer’s Lambton Quay – highly recommended) that I’d been wearing the wrong sized bra all my life (I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before – such a defining moment in my life). “You must have known they were wrong” my friends said “Because the strap must have ridden up your back all the time” “Yes, that’s true” I said “but I just thought that was what they did…” anyway, out with the old and in the new, and so there’s nothing I’d consider really ancient in my possession, in spite of what my colleague’s daughter might say.

On the other hand, I have knickers that go back decades. I have one pair that my auntie gave me when I was still a teenager. I don’t save it for best, but they still stay up and don’t have any holes.

Is it sad that my ‘lucky’ underpants are saved for such landmark events in my life as sitting exams, or job interviews? Situations in which you would not normally expect underwear to play a prominent role?