“TANGERINE!” by Amanda Prowse

“No 15 HOLEY KNICKERS BATMAN!!!”

“No 15 HOLEY KNICKERS BATMAN!!!”

My pants. My pants are a thing of concern. This hasn’t always been the case. There have been years, decades even when the lacy, high legged thingies that covered by butt were beautiful. I was indeed happy to let them be seen by my husband, any neighbour who happened to be glancing at the washing line, my mum who on occasion would help tackle my laundry mountain or indeed any member of the emergency services. I should clarify, this was not because I went around showing said garments to the Police, Fire and Ambulance staff – but because I am of the generation where having grotty underwear on was to be dreaded in case of an emergency. Although I could never quite figure out when my life might hang in the balance and severe woe had befallen me, why my primary concern should be the state of my undergarments, but hey ho.

‘Do you have any last words, anything you’d like us to share with your family?’

            ‘Tell them… tell them sorry about the state of my knickers…’

I just can’t see it.

Yes, my knick-knacks were lacy, neat, snug and came in a variety of pale shades usually more associated with sugared almonds. And I had a wide selection of them. Mainly because with my dainty bottom, (can a bottom be dainty?) my pants didn’t get that much wear.

Let’s fast forward a couple of decades:

My pants can now best be described as substantial. Long gone is the dainty bum of my youth. These knickers of mine have to work hard! Gone too are the sugared-almond, pretty pastel tones that are pleasing to the eye, instead my pants are grey. Or more accurately pond, sludge grey. The exact colour in fact that occurs when you put white knickers into a wash with your husband’s army uniform, dirty jeans and an old tea towel. Putting my hand randomly into my knicker drawer and pulling out these parachute-like pants in all colours of swamp do nothing to make me feel pretty or attractive, quite the opposite…

They are not only grey, but the elastic has gone slack in most places and so they kind of hang off me like the dress my mother made me wear to the wedding of a distant relative that was at least two sizes too big. I remember spinning around on the dance floor to a catchy “Showaddywaddy” number and the whole thing ended up back to front, kind of like twirling in a tent. Yes, my pants are similar.

They also, I am ashamed to say, have holes. And before you ask, I do mean in addition to the large ones you put your legs in. They are worn, frayed and a couple of pairs have got caught in my zip and have proper gaps in the front – which I am told some people pay good money for – for me alas, there’s nothing sexy about my underwear. The only sensation I feel when stepping into said pants, is a little drafty around the nether regions.

I could, I suppose bin this grotty, grey haul of slack, worn cotton and replace them with something a little fancier. The simple truth is that I can’t be bothered. More often or not they are hidden away beneath my jeans and frocks and so why does it matter? Maybe it might make me feel good, a little better about myself, but as I hold them close to my chest, think about what we have been through together - it feels hard to part with them. Plus, I am mindful of waste, and can I justify chucking out my pants just because they have gone past their sell by date? If I applied this logic then I’d have to dispose of and replace my furniture, parents, car and the three hazelnut yoghurts nestling at the back of the fridge.

No, I shall instead soldier on with my comfortable and familiar pants. Besides, they perfectly match my grey, frayed, saggy bras. Did I mention the state of my bras? Oh, dear friend, my vast boulder holders are a whole other story…

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