Spanks. The final taboo?

I paid my first ever visit to a laundrette recently.

(No. I am not that lazy. I was staying with a friend who had put their washing machine into storage as he was moving down to Cape Town.)

So. Laundrette. I piled my clothes into a bag, lumped them through one of those whiplash inducing doors with a violent swing akin to a Venus Flytrap and gulped uncomfortably as I paid what seemed an awful lot for Macro-own-brand washing powder - not saying anything as only a true English person does. I was sifting through my clean laundry a few days later and noticed that something was missing. I wasn't even sure if I could prove it, either, as it was one of those places that neglects to write down what you handed in. (Apparently I went to a lucky dip dry cleaners.) What was worse, however, was that even if they had been clever enough to make a note of what I'd handed in, I'm not sure I could have gone back to ask after the missing item. What was it?

My spanks.

To the unassuming eye they are almost offensive ~ oyster coloured industrial sized underwear that promises to strap in even the most stubborn bulges ~ that you hoik right up to your bra. Bridget Jones knickers. Or possibly a small parachute if the occasion called for it.

I bought them as I was wearing an eye-wateringly tight dress for our big advertising awards, The Loeries, last October and I was too lazy to lay off the Sauvingnon Blanc and sneaky cheese scoffing. When I went to the till at Woolworths the cashier called her friend over so they could loudly mock my revolting choice in underwear and I shuffled, red faced, out of the door after giving up trying to explain it was for a special occasion (cue more cackling) and that I didn't usually wear a tent underneath my jeans. They're vile. But they're MAGIC. After hopping up and down with as much grace and dignity as I could muster (this was not a lot, sadly) I whipped my dress on and voila. The realisation of being able to wolf down food and drink as normal (I get depressed when I have to turn down canapes) gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my faux-flat stomach. Hooking up in said magic pants is not really an option, as you either have to brave hook up's face of horror as he lays eyes on your giant, flesh coloured panties or make a speedy dash to the bathroom first and take them off entirely, instantly morphing you into one of those people that goes out without wearing underwear. Like Britney. Truly, I only wear them if I'm wearing a skinny fit dress (this is rare: I tend to loaf around wearing leggings and oversized tops so I can continue to gobble food in the fashion that I'm accustomed) but I've formed a grudging admiration for them. I've even decided that they're actually vampy in an 80's Madonna meets Mad Men sort of way. *scrapes barrel*

But.

I still don't advertise that I'm wearing spanks. Why would you? It would be like marching through the streets brandishing a banner, so you could broadcast to the world that those creamy, caramel-y streaks in your hair were in fact done by Alessandro, last Thursday at 3, or that the delicious Mulberry tote you're parading to the envy of everyone else was actually acquired from a shady night market in Phuket next to knock off dvds. I'm not advocating lying for God's sake, just to be allowed to project a little white lie. Women should be entitled to a smidgen of mystery. So, tragically, my not-so-inner English has forbidden me from going back to the dry cleaners to ask after them. I say it's because it's too late, I don't have a slip to prove it, pre-Christmas rush means it's bound to be bursting with spanks blah blah blah - but I know it's because I'm too mortified to expose my little flesh-coloured lie to an unimpressed cashier with raised eyebrows and laughing eyes.