KEY POINTS:
I'm fully expecting to see a reality series where random women are stopped in the street and asked to show their underwear.
I bring this up not because I would watch it, but because it would prove my long-held belief that all women wear huge, flesh-coloured cotton undies with bras that don't match.
We are a nation of women who, once disrobed, resemble badly packaged sausages bulging in all the wrong places rather than glamorous sculptures of lace and silk.
Every morning we rifle through our undies drawer and our hand immediately rests on the well-worn, soft-to-the-touch, enormous pair of rompers, rather than the skimpy lace number which exists to itch.
If you don't believe me just take a look at our washing lines.
Acres of number 8 wire sagging with the weight of sensible knickers. Women have favourite pairs of undies which are rated in order of comfort.
A good pair will be soft and smooth next to the skin, and will not cut into the flesh of our stomach or our bum.
They won't be so loose as to roll down the stomach when you bend, and will be unable to form a wedgie. Which must make it hard to sell undies to women who just want the same old bloomers.
Marks and Spencer found that instead of marketing to the traditional three types of women - wife, mother or daughter - now, there are an astounding 23 different moods for any one woman at any one time.
And I'm betting 22 of them involve flesh-coloured 100 per cent cotton with a mild variance towards the black.
The 23rd is that sexy temptress with too much time on her hands who visits lingerie shops.
I've never really understood why we have lingerie shops when you can buy most brands of undies at Farmers.
Every time I enter a lingerie boutique I get confused by the lace and padding and wonder if, in fact, they exist solely so Richard Gere has somewhere to take his Pretty Woman shopping, or for pole-dancers and hookers to buy their work clothes.
But some women tell me that just knowing you are wearing the sexiest red and black lace bra and pants set under your clothes is enough to give you that extra spring in your step, a confidence born from your secret knowledge of what lies beneath.
It's something you wear for yourself. And if you believe that then don't bother showing me your IQ test results.
If I'm looking for that extra confidence boost I'm more likely to have a glass of wine and a ciggie than waft about smug in the knowledge that I'm wearing something no one will see.
There is one day of the week when Kiwi women might go to a bit of extra effort with their undies. Saturday nights, when the matching set is taken out for a walk in the hope that, later, a girl might get the chance to show them off in some bedroom. This is essential because a Kiwi man only notices your underwear the first time he sees you with your clothes off. The next night he'll slip straight on past with barely a glance and you can safely return to your nana undies, so that first memory is the gift we give him.
But if you're married, Saturday night is really just like any other 100 per cent cotton day of the week because the likelihood of us getting our gear off in a long, slow striptease to reveal a temple of shimmering sheer silk for our husbands is nil. We all know that he will either laugh his head off or, worse, not notice.
And then there are some married women who read far too many chick-lit novels and keep themselves nice in the underwear department just in case a tall, dark stranger whips them off for an extra-marital affair.
Other realists stick rigidly to their flesh-coloureds simply because if that tall, dark stranger ever did reveal himself we'd run a mile, go home to change, sober up and talk ourselves out of it. Now that's a reality series.
