knickers to you, too

Sitting in the pub after dancing, the conversation turns to underwear. Beetle's girlfriend admits to having between 30 and 50 bras. I am impressed, and keep my count to myself.

Phildar recounts a tale that she read in the paper, about a girl who was dumped after a first date because when she got undressed her pants were not deemed suitably alluring. I am wondering silently which newspaper she reads, when the guy to her left interjects ‘Too right!’

Several of the women in the group look at him incredulously, though the youngest of us agrees with him. (Germaine Greer: weep now.) None of the more mature of us says what we are thinking, which from the sideways looks around the table translates roughly as ‘You twat’. I also resolve there and then that I shall never date anyone ever again, ever.

Phildar asks for a straw poll of who is wearing big pants. All of us put our hands up. This is not entirely scientific, as the wearing of big knickers to Ceroc is advisable just in case someone decides to do one of those turn-you-upside-down moves.

Someone then tells the men that they should show us their underwear. We go around the table and one by one they hoick bits of elasticated jersey from beneath their waistbands. Three grey, one black and one green. It’s not the sort of thing one expects on a sober night out. I may have to go to the pub more often.