My underwear drawer is a sad state of affairs. Buried under a mini avalanche of hand scribbled stories, ill advised mini skirts and make up that exploded on a plane once and was never adequately repaired, I consider it a good day if I manage to find some that actually fits. But this year I’m discarding the washing machine battered M&S pants AND those really uncomfortable g strings that get stuck up my bum. That’s right. The knicker drawer is getting sexed up.

Given recent online dating attempts, candidates for viewing privileges are relatively thin on the ground. Even the acquisition of a unicorn onesie hasn’t prompted a queue of enthusiastic white knights begging to slay a dragon in exchange for a peek at my glorious scantily clad bottom.*

Despite the lack of potential suitors, I fancy investing in something reasonably alluring. After all, you never know when you’ll lose a drinking competition and be asked to strip to your knickers and run around a swimming pool/car park/stranger’s house/supermarket.**

Blessed with taste much more expensive than my bank balance is comfortable with, the first stop was the Agent Provocateur sale. After searching through several pages of wildly overpriced lace wedged between perfectly spherical bum cheeks (which in this weather I fear would leave even the bravest girls at risk of chill), I discovered these curious ‘nipple pasties’.

Lurking amidst the kind of lacy bazooka boosting bras that would entice Bradley Cooper into bed,*** these bad boys were ready to tempt anxious buyers keen to get their jig on. (At least I assume that’s what they were designed for. Unless the 10p mix company has finally revolutionised the storage system for their flying saucer sweets.) But with the crystal version priced at a tidy £195, I’d make sure the man in your life isn’t likely to run off with that chick from gym class with the magnificent breasts before you commit to such an investment.

Moving one step ahead in the realms of wanton sex appeal, Myla was advertising this bargainous little number.  Described as an Abigail playsuit, the garment is spectacular in its ability to perform absolutely none of the usual functions of traditional underwear. I’ve no idea who Abigail is or why she inspired this attire, but can only presume if she’s not in jail she’s busy running a brothel for weird people who are sexually aroused by My Little Ponies in bondage gear.

Personally it’s not a look I can get on board with so I moved on to Victoria’s Secret, the US underwear brand which recently opened in our own fair London.

It’s mostly modelled by offensively attractive giraffe legged glamazons, but don’t let that put you off. Originally aimed at mass market America, their selection includes cute coloured boy shorts and sexy corsets to suit the ‘vanilla with chocolate sprinkles’ girls of the world.  But alas, the British stores are in possession of the same defunct sizing system as the Americans, which fails to acknowledge small girls could have breasts bigger than marshmallows. Take note international underwear stores, women are *not* all the same size.

Due to my lack of underwear shopping success, I’m unable to offer you the visionary wonder of myself in newly purchased knickers. So whilst I continue to browse for adaquate foofy coverage (hopefully with crotch fully in tact) I’ll just leave you with these sexy images. You’re welcome.

*NB: It is much more glorious in dim lighting.

**This has never happened. Apart from the swimming pool one. But only once.

***Probably. If he was very drunk. And I didn’t speak. And/or tell him about the time I accidentally got on the wrong train and ended up in Skegness.