Sitting on the floor of my new bedroom this evening (sort of an oxymoron, it’s new for me but it’s a really old cottage) I was found sorting through many years worth of knickers. With a lack of furniture to utilise (it’s hard trying to make a small bedroom worth of stuff fill an entire unfurnished flat) I decided that if I’m forced for a little while to hide my undergarments in my divan bed drawers, I might as well do it properly.

There I sat, teacup to hand whilst I proceeded to fold my knickers and file away accordingly. In the end, I found myself with four piles of knickers. Well five if you include the ones bound for the bin.

The first pile contained knickers that I would willingly remove clothing for in order to be seen, i.e. when things are going well on a date. These are the fancy, sometimes frilly, sometimes not, knickers which usually belong to a matching bra somewhere.

The second lot consisted of stuff I wouldn’t mind being caught wearing if say, I was knocked over by a granny on her zimmer car and was rushed to hospital with a fractured pelvis. Thus the (hopefully!) cute doctor was then forced to remove my clothing to assess the damage.

You can see I’ve given this a lot of thought.

The third pile was home to knickers only suitable for that time of the month. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t purposely buy knickers just for that occasion, it’s just when my underwear become a little threadbare, or god-forbid –whispers- stained, they get relegated to pile three. It’s sort of like a hierarchy of pants.

One becomes two and two eventually becomes three. It’s just the order of things.

So what, must you be wondering, is in pile four?

Underwear that is too good to be used for that time of the month, but not good enough to show on a date or even to an unsuspecting doctor!

Do you see how complicated my life is? And this is only my underwear drawer.

Pile four contains, amongst other things, a Christmas themed pair of Miss Piggy and Kermit the frog knickers. The material is thick. They cover more skin than I’d like to admit to. Sometimes I wear them to bed under my equally hideous pyjamas.

I don’t like to wonder why I am single.