I don't want to sound shallow or anything, because I'm trying really hard here, but I have a problem with my Frenchman's underwear.

Perhaps I'm making excuses, but maybe you'll understand if you met Monsieur Parfait. Perfect minus pants.

Every species has its own foibles, some better known than others, like your irritatingly predictable, "he left the toilet up" or even the lesser-known but equally popular, "if only he didn't spit when he spoke, then maybe it would be alright".

Similarly, women have foibles too of course, and we would be here all day if I was to get into them, but I'm not talking about clichés, I'm talking about personal afflictions that come down to taste.

I don't give a toss if a guy doesn't put the toilet seat down, or if he squeezes his toothpaste from the top of the tube, or even if he scratches his nethers while he watches rugby. Honestly, whatever…

I'm talking specifically about the paisley underwear that was bought to my attention on Saturday night.

Why oh why?

He's French, so why on Earth would he wear the worst tier of his Woolies three pack?

Again, underwear isn't an accurate or even remotely profound characteristic on which to base an entire person, let's be honest. And it's not something I can explain, because it seems so downright ridiculous. But when that man dropped his rods, I thought, "Say it isn't so".

Now, now, it doesn't mean I'm not going to try and turn a blind eye. I'm going to tell you exactly what Woolies briefs do, and also elaborate on boxer shorts.

I do understand that the cotton Speedo variety of men's underpants are comfortable. They're practical and yet, they're also practidull, but with the added bonus of accessibility. Men in my office and during cocktail hour have explained why they wear them, and why boxer shorts can be a drag, especially on a hot day, if I'm correct.

Half the problem with these pants are their colours. The beautiful mustard, paisley shapes and the awesome Russian reds that I've seen on more occasions than I care to remember…

I know it's a tough call, but here's the thing: It's not the colour as much as it is the basic item itself. And because Frenchman seemed so outwardly suave and smelled like heaven, the jocks just came as a shock.

You know what I mean?

And it does work both ways. Women do get that Bridget Jones' granny pants aren't exactly sexy. They're comfortable (I think as I daren't try them for myself), and luckily for us ladies, there are heaps of other choices out there, like those French knickers.

According to personal statistics, men do like these. They're also comfortable and don't leave one of those panty line things on your executive attire. We have heaps of choice, and I suppose we therefore have less of an excuse than men when it comes to bad undergarment dressing.

Of course men can wear those half-boxer half-brief numbers, even though I saw many a male bather in Greece wearing those things in lumo lycra. But nothing beats boxer shorts. They just work.

I can't judge the man for wearing briefs, even though deep down I'm trying to find excuses not to like my Frenchie. Just two weeks ago the man was also crying on my shoulder and opening up. That's more of an excuse to leave if any, not freaking underwear. Bad underwear doesn't make him dangerous turf; him not being ready for a relationship does.

And frankly, I don't know if I'm ready either. If I'm nit-picking, this is it. Besides, he's just too perfect. And that's replete with its own set of troubles right there — even with the paisley pants.