**The Accidental Wedding, or How I Became a Husband Because of Knickers and Plain Stubbornness**
“Put your knickers on and get down here! I’ll be outside your flat in five minutes!” I barked into the phone the moment she answered.
Truth be told, the knickers bit was just a joke—I thought she’d laugh. But instead, she went quiet, then whispered:
“How do you know I don’t wear any at home?”
“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 just hung up. But five minutes later, the phone rang again:
“Hi… it’s me… the network cut out.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath:
“Are you sure that lace pair suits you?”
“OH!”
She hung up again. This time for hours. Then…
“So, how do I look now?” Her voice was cautious but playful.
“How would I know? I was joking earlier.”
“Joking? So… I went out of my way for nothing?”
“Right, I’m coming over!” I said and was at her door in ten minutes.
I rang and knocked for ages. No answer. Then I pushed the door—it was open. Inside: silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I thought I’d walked into a trap of loneliness, blokes in masks and body armour burst in.
Turns out the flat was under surveillance. A “false alarm for unauthorised entry,” apparently. They nearly let me go by midday, calling it a misunderstanding. But, like an idiot, I lingered. And since I was stuck, I decided to have a laugh. Played a round of “three-card brag” with the coppers. Won a modest sum—a bottle of whisky and a couple hundred quid on my way out. Call it a profit.
I limped out of the station, groaning dramatically, playing the victim of police brutality. Her car was parked outside. She was behind the wheel, waiting. But I pretended not to see her, hobbling past, groaning louder. Slipped into the closest block and hid.
She ran around searching. Didn’t find me. I went home and turned off my phone. Next morning, I set my voicemail:
“Hello! I’m in hospital. If I survive, I’ll call back.”
Later, I heard she phoned every hospital in town. Finding nothing, she drove to each A&E in person. Then someone blabbed they’d seen me in town—bottle in hand, perfectly cheerful.
The calls stopped. But soon, another came—from a mutual friend:
“Hey! Wedding invite—you in?”
“Who’s the bride?” I already knew.
“Well… her.”
“Right. Fine, I’ll come.”
“Bring your passport. In case the witness bails!”
The registry office was a day away. The longest day of my life. I wallowed, blamed myself, got angry, forgave, wallowed again. By evening, I knew I couldn’t live without her. By night, I decided I didn’t deserve her. By morning, I talked myself into it—man up, see it through. No running. Not even to Mars.
“The worse it gets, the better it is,” I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Forty-odd familiar faces crowded outside the registry. My misery was the cherry on top of the wedding cake.
We were called inside. Mendelssohn’s wedding march—that torturer of grooms—played. Then the officiant announced 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?”
“Very,” I said honestly. “But… what if I hadn’t come? All that money wasted—”
“Relax. I booked it in your name.”
And that’s how we live. By accident. But in love.
*Lesson learned: Never joke about knickers unless you’re ready for the consequences.*
