Breechclout Bonanza

I knew it was time to do some washing when I realised I was down to my emergency undies. You know, that pair of huge, baggy undies in which the elastic has long since perished, but which I was too miserly to throw away, thinking, “I may need them one day.” And so I did.

Spending all day yesterday in a g-string was an uncomfortable reminder that I’m no longer as young and svelte as I used to be, so today while my freshly-laundered knickers fluttered on the Hills Hoist, I spurned the rest of my forlorn collection of barely-there reminders of youth and pert bottom, in favour of the enormous bum-clouts. I don’t know why I bothered – whatever covering-up function underpants are supposed to fulfil was completely overridden by this pair’s amorphous state that would have better suited a gigantic amoeba with vaguely leg-like flagella.

Later on when I needed to walk to the shops, and preferred to wear a pair of undies that:

a) could stay up independently;
b) would not floss my crack; and
c) were not my wedding day knickers, which have not been worn in four years and would undoubtedly invite an unfavourable commentary on the transition from blushing young bride to draggled goodwife;

I hit the jackpot. Tucked away in the pile of my clothes that never gets sorted but diminishes piecemeal until its renewal after washing days, I found a perfect pair of undies. The kind your grandmother fervently hopes you’re wearing in case you get run over by a bus. With luck like that, I should have bought a lottery ticket.