Today I had the kids at home all day; they are both under six but talking.
It was one of those days when I try to avoid them as much as possible, even though I am their guardian. There is an age old principle in parenting, if they are crying, they are probably not dying, and this something I adhered to. But come about three I decided it would be good to at least give them one activity that didn't involve asking them to leave my office when there was an advert on whatever TV channel they were watching.
So I decided upon that stalwart, The Park.
They got dressed up as a bunny and a dog, as often they do, and I knew that I needed to get changed.
And for that, I needed underpants.
My domestic assistant does my washing. It's not a sexist thing, it's not a lazy thing. I do my things, she does hers. One of hers is doing my washing. And I must say, apart from the occasional fabric over-softening, She can't be faulted. But today, for the first time since I hired her, I was out of underpants.
There weren't even any available dry "one dayers" that any right minded guy would resort to. It was not a conspiracy, it was a black hole of underpants caused by the collision of various domestic singularities. It was the Perfect Storm (welcome to the first ever use of a storm metaphor to represent a lack of underpants).
I had two impatient kids dressed as super-sized pets standing in the hallway and I has no underpants. But I had options. Until you're strapped to the nuke, you always have options.
- Go Bareback - I don't really like to do it. I don't know why. Its not just hygiene, there are chafing issues. There is the higher probability of "monkey tears" after the use of a urinal.
- Go To Marks and Spencers and get some - it's just down the road. But it would probably involve leaving the kids at home.
- Wear some of my wife's- I don't really have "transsexual" issues about this, I just don't like the idea of my wife wearing panties that I have worn. She is above that, in my mind.
- Wear Swimming Trunks - There they were, in my drawer. In the drawer sans underpants, a pair of swimming trunks that would make an ideal pair of pants. Bingo!
Off we went. It emerged as an issue in my head, after a quarter of a mile, that my McGivered underpants would, for the rest of the day, be a real-time dual-side scrotal garrotte, with each step.
I tried to persevere, but it was just a few steps later that I realised that each step would also be but a stage in an endless cycle of self-wedgifying. I had to go bareback. And I had to go bareback fast. I got out my ever-handy pocket Swiss Army Knife and cut the right side. I walked a few paces and cut the left side. That was that... I thought.
Even though there was a full collapse of underpant topology and morphology with those two cuts, the underpants would not budge. The fabric, 90% Nylon, 10% Elastic, grips like a goat on a bramble, and so there was not going to be any lateral sheer between my balls and this alien skin. No sir-eeeee, Bob.
I had to go in.
I want you to pause for a moment and imagine a man standing in the middle of a pavement accompanied by two young girls, dressed in a full-on bunny suit and dog suit, tails, ears the works, and this person has both of their hands in their trousers, to the forearms, and is "aggressively fidgeting".
I pulled and pulled the front side was free... then the back... it kind of fell like a flat jellyfish into the seam of my trousers and I thought rather than extract, I would leave... I had achieved my goal.... la liberte du lingeree.
I was done. Free!
My kids by now had run off. I closed my knife away and looked behind me. There, standing watching me, were four workmen working on the road.
There was a hiatus in my head. I raised my hands and shrugged and all I said, with an accompanying (I guess) dumb-looking smile, was , "There's nothing to say!" before I ran off after the two kids.... expecting at any moment to be gunnded down by a Black Ops Paedocopter.... To die a nonce with my makeshift pants slithered down my leg.