Panties. At a mere mention women cling to one another in fear, crows ominously scatter, those religiously inclined make a sign of the cross.
But God can’t help them now.
Panties. Terrifying images are conjured up: a dusty three-pack of snow white ‘briefs’ hanging in a bargain basement looking like they need to call The Samaritans, a Christian Bale-as-Batman creepy grunt replete with lisp: “Paaantiethss“, a baggy pair on a Nineties bum like Sigourney Weaver in Alien.
It’s real chuck up your dinner stuff.
Might I suggest a few alternatives, because anything, anything is better than panties.
“Oh God, these jockey shorts have seen their day. But my goodness, which bin do they go in? Is it the black or the brown?”
“Derek pass me my… my… my… things! My… God do I have to say it? Can a woman not retain a bit of mystique? Okay, this is as far as I’ll go… my… unmentionables!”
“Darling, can you bring me in the Emerald and Ivory Flower Lenor. I need to wash my delicates. No, no, that’s the Topaz and Magnolia one. Oh God, move, I’ll do it myself. Easily known you never do an ounce of cleaning around the house.”
“Horseriding is murder on one’s drawers. These are threadbare, threadbare I tell you!”
“Will you feck away from my bloomers Thomas you randy old goat! It’s my time of the month so don’t even think about taking liberties.”
“Will you stop picking your undercrackers out of your bum? It’s unseemly.”
“Are these knickers cutting my arse into four?”
So there you go. Print this off and tuck it into your purse for a quick and easy reference guide to cater for all possible scenarios.
Oh, and I think gammy undies go in the black bin, just in case you were wondering.