Granny Knickers

You see these knickers? These are the most offensive, unattractive granny pants I could find at short notice, bought whilst in a huff after The Roobs gave me a ‘look’ for not remembering to take her knickers into the hospital when I came to visit.

You see, she’d messaged me a list of things she needed me to bring into the hospital for her, including some fresh pants since her nethers were dropping post-baby puddin’s all over the place and wrecking the gussets of her current ones. I however was running about like a headless chicken trying to be the super-most reliable husband, and perhaps forgot said ‘pish catchers’.

Yes, yes, I know. I can almost hear the collective sigh of exasperation from all you mummies out there, sipping your breakfast wine whilst lounging around in your activ-wear, collectively agreeing with my wife about how men-folk are as much use as inflatable dart boards, but in my defense the list was otherwise extensively adhered to and let’s face it, you could always just ‘Bear Grylls’ it and stick a spare muslin or something down there to improvise, maybe tie it round one of your thighs to make some kind of fanny-hammock?

So when I proudly displayed her requested wares at the hospital ‘sans-undercrackers’, I was shot one of those amazing non-smiles that women can do when we’ve managed to piss them off.

You know; the slight head tilt to the left, the smile that neither reaches their eyes nor the corners of their stupid mouths and the slightly raised eyebrow that combined all indicate that you’ve been a bit of a fud, haven’t you?

Slightly miffed, I decided there and then I would go and find some bloody pants, and then she would have to give me the ‘bestest-husband’ look that I so earnestly craved for validation. With my small Destroyer helper beside me, we stormed off and navigated our way through the labyrinthine corridors of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary until we found a wee clothing shop by the main entrance that sold ladies essentials.

“Excuse me, but do you perhaps sell any ridiculously oversized, unattractive and uncomfortable ladies pants that would suit my hospital bed bound wife?” I had to muscle my way through at least three wee pensioner huddles to get anywhere near the desk, their bony elbows digging me in the unmentionables as they fought to safeguard their space while they gossiped on about how their hips were giving them gyp.

“Um, you want pants that are oversized and uncomfortable?”

“Yes please, and ideally wouldn’t look out of place in a Victorian period drama If you could!” She seemed uncertain about my clearly specific request as we navigated our way to the rear of the store, where she picked out these super bland white things.

“These are probably the only close option sir, and they’re currently three for five pounds?” Great, they were cheapie ones too. That should cause a good irritable rub against her gooch, not that I was bitter or anything..

I threw my fiver across the counter and made off with my purchase, whilst trying to wrestle the Destroyer away from the mannequin in the window which he’d adopted as his new girlfriend. We made our way back to mum in the ward, and handed over her new knickers.

Well, I’m sad to say folks that the reaction wasn’t as rapturous as I had expected on the presentation of the new pants. Roobs shot me a disgusted look like I’d just presented her with a signed photo of Boris Johnston, before shoving them into a darkened drawer and ignoring their existence.

I’m led to believe they were tried out later that evening, and were indeed uncomfortable and chafing on the taint, so the moment she got home from the hospital all three pairs were unceremoniously dumped into the bin.

I basically spent a fiver just to irritate my wife for 24hrs. I call that a win.

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