“An Accidental Wedding, or How I Ended Up Married Because of Knickers and Sheer Stubbornness”
“Put your knickers on and get downstairs! I’ll be outside in five minutes!” I shouted into the phone as soon as she picked up.
Honestly, the knickers bit was just a joke—thought she’d laugh. But instead, she went silent, then whispered:
“How did you know I wasn’t wearing any around the flat?”
“Wait—what?” I froze.
“Well, you said…”
“Didn’t you know? I can see everyone I talk to.”
“Liar!”
“Nope. Right now, you’ve got the phone in one hand and the other… you’re covering yourself.”
“OH!!”
The line went dead. She just hung up. But five minutes later, my phone rang again:
“Hi… it’s me… the connection dropped.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath:
“You sure that lace pair even suits you?”
“OH!”
She hung up again. This time, for two hours. Then…
“So, how do I look now?” Her voice was cautious but teasing.
“How should I know? I was joking earlier…”
“Joking?” A pause. “Right. Meanwhile, I went and got all dressed up just for you…”
“That’s it—I’m coming over!” Ten minutes later, I was at her door.
I knocked forever. No answer. Then I pushed the door—unlocked. Stepped inside. Silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I started thinking I’d walked into a lonely trap, blokes in masks and bulletproof vests burst in.
Turns out, the flat was under surveillance. “Unauthorised access alarm triggered,” apparently. They nearly let me go by afternoon—claimed it was all a misunderstanding. But like an idiot, I stuck around. And since I was there, I decided to have some fun. Played “three-card brag” with the coppers. Won a bit, just enough for a bottle of whiskey and a couple hundred quid on my way out. Basically, made a profit.
I left the station limping, groaning, milking the whole “victim of injustice” act. Her car was parked outside, engine running. She was in the driver’s seat, waiting. But I pretended not to see her, walked right past, groaning louder. Dodged into the first building and hid.
She ran around searching. Didn’t find me. I went home and turned off my phone. Next morning, I set up an auto-reply: “Hello! Currently in hospital. If I survive, I’ll call back.”
Later, I heard she phoned every hospital in town. When that got her nowhere, she started checking A&Es. Then someone snitched, said they’d seen me in town—bottle in hand, perfectly cheerful.
The calls stopped. Then a mate rang:
“Hey! You’re invited to a wedding!”
“Who’s the bride?” I already knew.
“Well… her.”
“Oh. Right. Fine, I’ll be there.”
“Bring your passport. Just in case the witness bails!”
Twenty-four hours till the registry office. The longest day of my life. I cycled through regret, anger, forgiveness, more regret. By evening, I realised I couldn’t live without her. By night, I decided I didn’t deserve her. By morning, I talked myself into it: “Be a man. See it through. Don’t run.” Even if Mars sounded tempting.
“Worse is better,” I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Forty-odd people crowded outside the registry—all mates. Watching me squirm was just an extra bonus with the wedding cake.
They called us in. Mendelssohn’s Wedding March started—absolute torture. Then the registrar said our names. I froze.
Two minutes later, I was married. Just like that. Then came the reception. Loud, fancy, expensive.
Later, alone, she asked:
“Well? Happy?”
“Thrilled,” I said, meaning it. “But… what if I hadn’t shown up? You spent a fortune on that party.”
“Don’t worry. I booked it under your name.”
And that’s how we live. By accident. But in love.
