...And it just says, "Drink Coke."

An impressively coincidental phonecall yesterday from my friend D, on her way back from her boyfriend's, he having thrown her out, as it were, when he had to leave in haste for work. She was in Trafalgar Square as I was on Regent Street. Being the most disorganised girl on the planet, she had failed to prepare herself adequately for staying the night there; being a conscientiously hygenic sort of girl, she refused to wear the same underwear two days running. Did I want to go and buy underwear with her?

"Hang on," I said. "Didn't I used to dare you to do that, and you never did?"

"I'm wearing jeans," she explained. Damn. I should also explain that there was a time in the history of our association when my daring her to do that wouldn't have been inappropriate. Fortunately, the responsibility of dealing with the fortissimo craziness she feels it's her responsibility as a girlfriend to exhibit has now fallen to him. Nonetheless, buying knickers with a beautiful girl who wasn't wearing any was better than what I had planned for the day, even if her figure has gone from hypnotically voluptuous to merely breathtaking in the intervening few years.

Having selected her underwear (and taken, of course, the best part of an hour in and out of the changing rooms) she was so impressed with how she looked in it that she made a promise to send me a picture later. What's more, she kept it. Shame I only got the top half, but I must admit she knows her shit when it comes to bras. Now if I could just figure out how to get it off my phone and on to the internet where it belongs....