Charlie’s dead! Remember that phrase?

I heard it a lot in the 70s. It was either whispered into an ear behind a cupped hand, by a well-meaning friend in an attempt to spare your blushes, or yelled at full volume across a crowded playground in the quest to cause maximum embarrassment.

What did it mean? Well, brace yourself for the horrifying shock – it meant that a wisp of petticoat had dared to reveal itself beneath the hemline of someone’s skirt.

And it was truly shocking and mortifying for the victim. Underwear was underwear and should never ever see the light of day.

It’s not an issue now for several reasons: a) hardly anyone wears a petticoat b) elastic is now far stronger and stays put – when was the last time your knicker elastic went? c) no-one would even consider batting an eyelid if they saw the edge of an undergarment.

Of course every single one of us girls knew the value of wearing clean and decent underwear every day in case we got run over and had to go to hospital.

And boys were educated to put on a clean pair of socks every day. At least, that is, until their shoes got too tight.

But it was all very private and proper.

Bras were definitely taboo. You would quickly be alerted to the fact if you were daring to show the merest hint of your bra strap in mixed company. It was an utter disgrace.

But then something happened. I’m not exactly sure what. Maybe the seed was sewn by the bra burning brigade? Maybe it was kicked off by Madonna? Who knows? But at some point everything started to change.

The first noticeable difference was that there was no longer the issue of not being able to wear an outfit because you didn’t have the “right” bra.

You were no longer a downright hussy for displaying a glimpse of your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.

And it may have drawn a lot of tuts from the always wonderful older generation, but this revolution led to some bras being sold with straps actually intended to be seen.

No longer almost an inch wide and mostly beige or white – until they reached a pink hue after being inadvertently through the wash with a red sock – bra straps came into their own. They were suddenly wonderfully skinny, vibrant and even, god forbid, diamanté studded.

Where will this all end it's hard to guess. But as fashion just keeps going round in circles (the very reason I refuse to discard of the 30-year-old black and silver skintight leopard skin trousers that, ahem, still fit me – well the ability to sit down is just so overrated), we’ll probably do something drastic and revert to Victorian values over the next few decades. So, beware you gorgeous and barely dressed 18 year olds ... in years to come you may even have to hide the legs on your dining room table to preserve your modesty – let alone your bra straps.