Mrs B commands a majestic entrance, coming up on to the dramatically lit stage of the evening talk in her name at London's Arts Club. If not for the dark dress (Lanvin, beautifully tailored) and unusual, striking jewellery, I would swear I might have mistaken her for a matriarch of a more majestic sort.
They have helped make stars and history, formed political fashions and pharaohs' essentials for the afterlife and are counted as one indicator of economic boom and bust. They also stay closer to men for longer than their wives or girlfriends ever will. So, why is it that men apparently give so little consideration to their underpants?