**The Accidental Marriage, or How I Became a Husband Over Knickers and Sheer Stubbornness**
“Put on your knickers and come down! I’ll be at your doorstep in five!” I barked into the phone the moment she answered.
Truth be told, the knickers bit was just a joke—meant to make her laugh. But instead, she went silent, then whispered:
“How did you know I wasn’t wearing any?”
“What?” I froze.
“Well, you just said—”
“Didn’t you know? I can see everyone I talk to.”
“Liar!”
“No. Right now, you’ve got the phone in one hand, and the other… you’re covering yourself.”
“OH!!!”
The line went dead. She’d slammed the receiver down. But five minutes later—ringing again:
“Hi… it’s me… my signal cut out.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath.
“Are you sure those lace ones suit you?”
“OH!”
Down went the receiver. This time, for hours. Then—
“So… how do I look now?” Her voice, cautious but teasing.
“How should I know? I was joking before.”
“Joking?” A pause. “Joking, was it? Well, I went and put something on just for you—”
“Right, I’m coming!” I said, and ten minutes later, I was at her door.
I knocked forever. No answer. Then I pushed—the door was open. Inside: silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I thought I’d fallen into some lonely trap, masked blokes in body armour stormed in.
Turns out, the flat was under surveillance. A “breach alert,” apparently. They nearly let me go by afternoon—claimed it was a misunderstanding. But like an idiot, I lingered. And since I was staying, I made the most of it. Played “Find the Lady” with the coppers. Won, too—not much, but with flair. A bottle of whisky and a couple hundred quid on my way out. Practically made a profit.
When I left the station, I limped, groaned, playing the victim of police brutality to perfection. Her car was waiting outside—her at the wheel. But I pretended not to notice. Walked past, groaning louder, ducked into the nearest building and hid.
She ran around looking. Didn’t find me. I went home, turned off my phone. Next morning, voicemail on:
“Hello! I’m in hospital. If I survive, I’ll call back.”
Later, I heard she’d rung every hospital in town. Found nothing, so she drove round A&Es herself. Then some wag let slip they’d seen me in town—bottle in hand, right cheery.
The calls stopped. Soon after, another rang—from a mate:
“Alright? You’re invited to a wedding!”
“Who’s the bride?” I already knew.
“Well… her.”
“Oh. Right. Fine, I’ll come.”
“Bring your passport. Just in case the witness bails!”
A day till the registry office. The longest day of my life. I stewed, regretted, raged, forgave, stewed again. By evening, I knew I couldn’t live without her. By night, I decided I wasn’t worthy. By morning, I convinced myself: be a man, see it through. Don’t bolt. Even if Mars sounds tempting.
“The worse, the better,” I muttered, tugging on my shirt.
At the registry, forty-odd people—all mates. Watching me was just another wedding bonus.
They called us in. Mendelssohn played—that executioner of men’s nerves. Then the registrar announced our names. I nearly choked.
Two minutes later, I was married. Just like that. Then came the reception. Loud, fancy, expensive.
Later, when we were alone, she asked:
“Well? Happy?”
“Very,” I said, honestly. “But… what if I hadn’t turned up? All that money on the do—”
“Don’t fret. I booked it in your name.”
And so we live. By accident. But in love.
