**Accidental Matrimony, or How I Became a Husband Due to Underwear and Sheer Stubbornness**
*”Put your knickers on and get down here! I’ll be outside your flat in five!”* I barked into the phone the moment she answered.
To be honest, the knickers bit was just a joke. I thought she’d laugh. Instead, she went quiet, then whispered:
*”How do you know I don’t wear any around the flat?”*
*”What?”* I froze.
*”Well, you just said—”*
*”You didn’t know? I can actually see everyone I’m talking to.”*
*”Liar!”*
*”No. Right now, you’ve got the phone in one hand and the other… covering yourself.”*
*”OH!”*
The line went dead. She just hung up. But five minutes later—another call:
*”Hi… it’s me… the network cut out.”*
I didn’t let her catch her breath:
*”Are you sure those lace ones suit you?”*
*”OH!”*
The phone slammed down again. This time for hours. Then…
*”How about now?”* Her voice, cautious but teasing.
*”How should I know? I was joking earlier…”*
*”Joking…”* A pause. *”Well, between you and me, I put something special on just for you—”*
*”Right, I’m on my way!”* I said, and ten minutes later, I was at her door.
I rang forever. No answer. Finally pushed the door—it was open. Inside: silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I thought I’d fallen into a trap of loneliness, masked blokes in body armour stormed in.
Turns out, the flat was under surveillance. A false alarm, they said—*”unauthorised access.”* They nearly let me go by afternoon, calling it a misunderstanding. But like a proper fool, I lingered. And since I was there, I thought I’d have a laugh. Played *”three-card brag”* with the coppers. Won—not much, but with style. A bottle of whiskey and a couple hundred quid for the road. Call it profit.
I left the station limping, groaning, playing the victim. Her car was parked right outside. She waited at the wheel. I pretended not to notice, hobbled past, amped up the groans, ducked into the first building, and hid.
She ran around searching. Gave up. I went home and turned off my phone. Next morning, I set the voicemail:
*”Hello! I’m in hospital. If I survive, I’ll call back.”*
Later, I heard she rang every A&E in town. Found nothing. Then someone blabbed they’d spotted me in the city—cheerful and carrying a bottle.
The calls stopped. Then another came—from a mutual mate:
*”Alright? You’re invited to a wedding!”*
*”Who’s the bride?”* I already knew.
*”Well… her.”*
*”Right… Fine, I’ll be there.”*
*”Bring your passport. In case there’s no witness!”*
Twenty-four hours till the registry office. The longest day of my life. I stewed, regretted, raged, forgave, stewed again. By evening, I realised I couldn’t live without her. By night, I decided I didn’t deserve her. By morning, I convinced myself: *Be a man. See it through. Don’t bolt. Even if Mars feels tempting.*
*”Worse is better,”* I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Forty-odd people crowded outside the registry—all mates. Their stares were an extra garnish on the wedding cake.
Inside, Mendelssohn’s *Wedding March*—that tormentor of grooms—played. Then the registrar called our names. I nearly choked.
Two minutes later, I was married. Just like that. Then came the reception. Loud, lavish, expensive.
Later, alone, she asked:
*”Well, happy?”*
*”Dead chuffed,”* I said honestly. *”But… if I hadn’t shown, what then? You dropped a fortune on that do.”*
*”Don’t fret. I booked it under your name.”*
And that’s how we live. By accident. But in love.
