WHO SENT ME KNICKERS IN THE POST?

WHEN I was about nine years old, I went to a little prep school called Bentham House, in the countryside north of Swindon, in Wiltshire.

One of the boys was the son of a very rich local businessman, a large and boring man, Mr D, who was, essentially, one of the town’s ‘gombeens’ — an Irish expression to describe an entrepreneur with a finger in every pie.

The family lived in a large secluded house in Westlecot Road, and sometimes Mr D would arrive at the school in a big silver Bentley to collect his son and, on the odd occasion, me. ‘Don’t touch the paintwork!’ he would roar as we clambered in. I suppose the idea was that I would play with my schoolmate and stay for tea, but I have no memories of this.

What I do remember very clearly is that my friend would trot off to feed his rabbit and that Mrs D, a vague, subdued and pretty woman in her 30s, would invite me up to the marital bedroom where we would sit down on the floor next to a large chest of drawers.

She would then open a drawer and take out all her fine lace underwear, as it was worn in the

Fifties, and lay it out on the carpet. I think some of them are known as French knickers, and there were camisoles and strange negligees and garments.

Stockings were draped dreamily over her arm to show off the silky sheerness.

I never understood why she thought I would be interested in this, but I was far too polite ever to say anything, other than to admire her collection.

Then she would put it all back and close the drawer and I would walk home, puzzled as to why I had been alerted to this cache of frilly knickers. I’ve never worn any women’s underwear, but I suppose that would’ve been the time that I acquired the habit if I had been so inclined.

Around 60 years later, I was presented with a mysterious parcel with a Swindon postmark which had been sent to me at Countdown’s offices in Manchester.

Countdown production managers Jo Lewis and Sarah Woolley get a lot of mail from young bloods, and I occasionally find myself opening what might be considered fan mail. But the parcel I opened that day made me catch my breath.

Out fell a pair of red net knickers of appalling vulgarity and crotchlessness. And despite the postmark from my home town, I refuse to believe that Mrs D, now in her late 90s if she’s still alive, would ever have countenanced a garment so vile.

I hurriedly passed the knickers back for disposal and the matter was never discussed again.