You’re always looking down on me – with your frills and ruffles, bows and embroidery – like being part of a twin set makes you better than me, like having a matching plunge neck makes you royalty. Even the plain nude ones, from that multipack of four, laugh from on high.
On the lowest rung of the clothes horse, tucked away in shame, I dangle close to the carpet, in all my full brief, white cotton splendour.
Thongs of many colours form a rainbow rows above, like pretty, painted acrobats, twirling on a wire. You low-rise, silken, hipsters tease my loose threads, baggy elastic, and say I’m greying with age.
Once again, we listen to you boast about the company you keep. Apparently, on her date with Mr. Egyptian Cotton, he said you were sexy, then you mingled with his boxers on the bedroom floor. They said their name was Calvin and they were incredibly famous – but they probably say that to all the knickers they meet.
But who does she turn to for a duvet day? Who gets sprung from the drawer at Aunt Flo’s first call? Who will she live in for weeks on end if Mr. Egyptian Cotton turns out to be another Mr. Polyester?
I doubt you could waterboard the truth out of her, but the sigh of relief says it all – when she flings the rest of you in the wash basket and relaxes into me. I’m her favourite pair.
© Billie-Leigh Burns