I think I got awkwardly close to being arrested by the UK anti-terrorism police last week.
Why? Because I have put on a little weight. No, I don’t mean that overweight (and in my case ugly) people are terrorists and that slim attractive people are like a rainbow that has each end delving deeply in to leprechaun poo which is encased in gold. It’s a little less shallow than that.
Of course, I am not completely sure I have put on as much weight as my clothes want me to believe. I believe part of the problem is my daughter. The apple of my eye. The one who worked out that “When they put clothes in the washing machine, they then turn dials and walk away!” and decided that “Actually, Dad done the washing, therefore it is being done wrong. I shall remedy this by turning the dials after he walks away”. This led to my clothes being washed on a heat that NASA uses as a “If we get too close to the sun, how hot will it actually be? Let’s find out by using a setting on a washing machine that no substance known to man can actually handle.”
I mean really…why have a setting that makes it so hot that you may as well swallow a burning poker or molten lava and heat your clothes clean using your body as you wear them?
But let’s just say that not only did she put the washload on a setting where if you were to open the door as soon as the wash had finished, you would be making that deranged monkey sound when trying to take the clothes out, but she also pressed the “Let me dry the clothes for you too! Yes I know that all of your labels have a DO NO TUMBLEDRY” label on them, but I will do it for you anyway” button. And then walked away. Happy in the knowledge that she has helped me.
The problem then comes that I forgot I had put the washload on. So it went right through the hot wash and then got dried to death. It took me a while to work out what had happened when I finally went to get the washing out and then realised that the load seemed a quarter of the size of what I had put in and was mysteriously dry. Had I been gone that long? Did it even wash? I checked in the best way possible.
I took a pair of my underwear out and gave them a good sniff. The test is in that if I take a long deep sniff in the crotch and don’t vomit uncontrollably before passing out for a matter of minutes, then they must be clean. They passed the test and I kept my lunch in me until nature took its place.
The problems then started again the following morning. Deciding that it was more fun to play the “Hit snooze until I am so late that Superman would have issues with catching the train I need to get” than just actually getting up in time to get ready, I rushed about getting dressed and driving to the train station. The initial reaction I had to putting my underwear on was “Christ…a little snug!” but didn’t think anything of it as I had worn them a few days before and they were fine.
And then I got off the train and had to walk a mile. Through the main financial district in London. In rush hour.
“Walk” is maybe a little misleading. It was more like arch deacon Dom Claude Frollo had given Quasimodo a bit of a serious seeing to and then inserted a live grenade between his arse cheeks and sent him on his way.
For a woman, you don’t really understand the whole underwear being a little tighter than you would perhaps like thing. Sure, you may end up with your G String slicing you in half when you sit down too quickly or something, but nothing spells “ouchy!” like having your tackle squashed to oblivion by underwear that really isn’t playing ball (or playing with your…).
It all led to me maybe looking like I was nervously sweating (hey, I am quite attached to the boys and didn’t want them to come to any harm, but dropping my strides in the middle of London to take off my underwear to ease things up was just not on the cards) and walking VERY uncomfortably. I was already getting some looks of “Ey up…what’s up with that bloke then…” from the local constabulary. So I did things like look at my phone (which I guess in their eyes was me checking how long until things went bang) and walk a bit quicker.
It all hit a big crescendo when I got to the office, got to the desk, sat down too quickly and pretty much decapitated my testicles. By the end of the day, me and John Merrick were best friends on Facebook and he has been poking me ever since.
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