By ALICE SMELLIE

Last updated at 17:20 31 May 2007

This is the stuff of nightmares. I am walking

down the road pushing a buggy when I have to

bend down to pick up a dropped toy.

A passing van driver leers at me and then beeps his horn. But it’s not because of my blonde hair: it’s because I look as if I forgot to put on any underwear that morning.

That’s what happens on my first day wearing the "C-String", a bad dream in underwear form. According the promotional blurb, it is "sexy, elegant and completely unique".

If you’re an ordinary-shaped person, that’s one out of three, and it ain’t the first two.

The C-string consists of the front part of a thong-style pair of knickers, held up with a little bit of wire at the back. The idea is that you pop it on, and it stays put. Think of an unevenly shaped wired headband, and you’re half-way there - the name derives from the C shape. Then imagine wearing it on your bottom.

The manufacturers suggest that you wear it with outfits that might show a panty line, or even as swimwear so that you don’t get tan lines across your bottom.

Personally, I would rather go to

the beach wearing full ski-gear than wear a skimpy headband as a part of bikini bottoms. But then, after two children, I feel racy wearing a coloured bra.

However, I have agreed to road test the C-string for a week. I receive my consignment by post in a minute envelope. No extra postage needed on this item. Then I dangle the C-string thoughtfully from my finger. It doesn’t look big enough for a child’s bottom, never mind one

belonging to a decent-sized woman.

My two-year-old son Archie wanders into the study and his eyes light up. "What’s that, Mummy?" he asks.

I’m momentarily stumped.

"It’s pants," I admit.

He giggles. "But where’s Noddy?" Ah. Most pants in our house have Noddy on them.

"There’s no room for Noddy to live," I explain.

He seems satisfied.

While the C-string consists of less material than a gnat’s handkerchief, it is not easy to get on being so springy and slight.

Once I have struggled into it I glance in the mirror and am horrified. You need the limbs of Elle Macpherson to carry this look off.

Thankfully my husband has gone to Spain for a few days with his friends, so is unable to laugh at me - or be sick at the sight of his wife looking like a lapdancer at 7am.

Dressed in hipster jeans I wander gingerly downstairs. Already the pants are chafing. I rapidly realise that hipsters are the wrong item of clothing for the C-string.

I take the children to the park and fall into conversation with a pleasant-seeming couple with a child a little older than Archie.

Our children smile shyly at each other and take turns on the slide. And then Oscar, my youngest, falls down and I bend over...an apparently underwear-free mother. The couple make their excuses and leave the park quickly, glancing

behind them as they leave.

My aunt comes to stay for the weekend, and I

show her my racy underwear. I tell her, quoting

directly from the manufacturers, that the C- string is: "Ideal for the beach or the

bedroom".

"Wouldn’t it be a bit uncomfortable to sleep in?" she asks.

When I have stopped laughing we agree that that’s undoubtedly not

what they meant.

When my husband returns from his boys’ weekend away I canvass his opinion.

"I’m testing out a new pair of pants," I announce.

My husband doesn’t even look up from the telly, where Jeremy Clarkson is telling him something about cars. I try again. Still no response. He is really tired.

Then I announce: "They’re invisible." The weary head whips round and the tired eyes pop open. Ha! Got him. Unfortunately, when I show them to him he is faintly repelled.

The next day I drop Archie off at nursery and grab my fellow mummy friend Zoe as she is

scooting off.

"I need to ask you about my pants," I hiss. She looks at the sample C- string I am holding - if I showed her in situ I’d be arrested - and exclaims in horror "It’s

awful. It must dig into you!"

"Is it terribly painful?" she adds sympathetically. I grimace bravely and hobble home.

My innate fear is of being carted off to hospital in the wrong underwear, so I find myself driving particularly carefully and crossing the road with extra caution. Any medic

seeing my bottom would be laughing too hard to carry out life-saving procedures.

On the fourth day I have to wear a skirt because it’s so hot. As well as feeling vulnerable, I am absolutely terrified that my pants are going to

fall off. How will I explain as I scoop my C-string hastily off the pavement?

But it stands fast, which relieves me, but whenever a small child tugs at my skirt I feel it slipping inexorably down. You can’t push

away a one-year-old who has only just started to walk, so I solve the problem by not leaving the house.

I am impressed to note that there is no apparent panty line to ruin the line of my skirt, but

again, I’m afraid I just look as though I’m not wearing anything, which frankly looks worse.

However, when I try on an evening dress I am impressed. Normally I can see the smallest of

thongs, but with the C-string nothing is visible, and the dress does look more elegant than usual.

I am nothing if not thorough. While there is no way I am going to test out the C-string while

sunbathing in our overlooked London garden, I do have a shower wearing one to see if it would stand up to the rigours of a swimming pool. The practical answer is yes, but the mirrors in

the bathroom say a firm "no".

A girls’ night out seals the fate of my new pants. A host of giggling and tipsy thirty-something friends confirm that although they

undoubtedly have a place in the drawers of the idle rich, size eight, 20-year-old models, they don’t quite work in day-to-day life.

C-strings? Frankly they’re pants.

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