I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the right underwear can mean the difference between a good and bad day. Get it wrong and your day will involve retrieving fallen bra straps, pulling up socks or retrieving knickers sliding towards an uncomfortable spot.
My evidence? The moment when, in 2020, aged 35, I put on my first pair of truly comfy pants. It was a warm day in lockdown. The banana bread was cooling, Joe Wicks was lunging, and I slid into my high-rise undies with a “full coverage” seat. That was the day I introduced myself to true underwear contentment (the fact that bras and I were on a break added to the sense of comfort).
