Louise comes downstairs while I'm eating my tea.
"There's a pair of white knickers - from Primark! - in the washing you did over the weekend that AREN'T MINE."
"Well," I splutter, "they're not mine!"
I've never been accused of infidelity before, and though I don't believe Louise is seriously accusing me of it now, the very suggestion still makes me feel insanely guilty. I can feel myself blushing, stammering out possible explanations, getting all needlessly defensive... how the hell can I feel guilty about something I've not actually done? God help me if I'm ever up on an erroneous murder charge.
"But I didn't kill Tom Hanks!"
"You're going down, sunshine!"
Before I continue: a little history. I have never been unfaithful to anyone. I have however been cheated on twice - by two previous partners - so I know exactly how shitty it feels. As a result, no matter the circumstances, I wouldn't ever do that to another human being, particularly not someone I care about. Besides, I'd be rubbish at it. If an unfounded suggestion fills me with this much guilt, imagine what I'd be like if I was actually culpable?
The problem with any such accusation - even one made in jest - is that there's no way to answer it. If you deny it... well, that's exactly what you would do, isn't it? If you make a joke of it... oh, so you think it's funny, do you? The more defensive you get, the more guilty you seem. I really would make a hopeless criminal - but I'd be even worse as "an innocent man charged with a crime he didn't commit".
"But I wasn't anywhere near the building where Bono, Russell Brand and Chris Evans were killed in that suspicious explosion - I swear! The one-armed man did it!"
"Guilty as charged."
However, all that said, if I were to turn heartless cad-bastard overnight, I certainly wouldn't be running around with someone who wears white Primark knickers! Give me some credit! It'd be Anne Summers or Agent Provocateur all the way! And the same goes for if I were to take a sudden turn to transvestism. Stockings and suspenders, darling. Only the best.
Likewise, I think I'd be a bit more careful than to cast my strumpet's nether garments into the weekly wash. And even if I were that stupid, I certainly wouldn't take them out of the wash and hang them on the clothes horse to dry! What am I, a complete idiot?
Fortunately, Louise appears to have answered that question for herself. Or perhaps she's secretly relishing the idea that some other unlucky chump might be about to take me off her hands. As to the mystery knickers, they remain just that. Perhaps they've been left by a malicious prankster out to sow disharmony in Meltham Towers. Or perhaps Louise is so embarrassed by finding such unflattering knicks in the bottom of her drawer, she's blanked out all memory of ever having purchased them. Or perhaps one of our neighbours is sneaking into our house and depositing their tighty-whiteys in our laundry basket because they're too idle to do their own washing? Rest assured, we will get to the bottom of this...
