Well, it had been a lovely night. My brother had called over with his 15 year old son. We were having one of those Indian summer nights in late October back in Dublin, and we sat out on the deck, lit a few candles, opened a couple of bottles of wine, talked about our first Christmas without our mother, who had died earlier in the year. My darling nephew, broke as always, put in a bid to cut the grass for me the next day, for a price. Talk turned to friends and family no longer with us, and we finished a lovely, relaxed evening with a toast to our late parents and others whom we had “lost”. Carried away with the promise of the grass being cut the next day, not to mention the copious glasses of vin rouge consumed by the brother, I insisted they stay over. “No, no!”, my brother objected, reaching for his phone to call a taxi. I saw the chances of cheap child labour disappearing out my front door, and insisted, pointing out (reasonably I thought) that staying over meant he could drive back to his house and then to work the next morning in his own car. He agreed and now I had to think “where are they going to sleep?”. I suggested to my nephew that he sleep in the converted attic, which is accessed by one of those fold out ladders, and put the brother in the box room. Fine, so we all headed for bed. Now, I am at that certain age where visits to the bathroom in the middle of the night are part of life. Normally, I just charge out of the bedroom to the loo and back, and don’t bother with pyjamas, dressing gowns, or other such accoutrements. This time, it was different.............
It is 4 am. The call of nature is insistent. I plonk the feet on the floor, and as with most other nights, rise up out of the bed, stumble out of my bedroom door, and across the landing to the bathroom. But of course, tonight nephew is in the attic, and those attic steps have been pulled out and take up half the landing. I shimmy by the steps (or so I think) but one of the bolts seems to reach out and snag my knickers. I am abruptly brought to a halt. I twist and turn, but cannot un-snag the panties from the offending bolt. I grab a handful of fabric and pull hard, to no avail. Who’d have thought Tesco knickers would be so resilient? I am well and truly caught, hoist, snagged. I am keenly aware that my brother is in the bedroom opposite and my nephew is literally steps away above my head. What to do? I am like a fish on a hook, squirming, knickers firmly attached to the offending bolt, wearing nothing but a desperate, rictus like expression, and a (groan) unmatching pair of bra and pants. Then, I had an idea – what if I just stepped out of the panties? Now, I’m in my mid-Fifties, not a dancer from Moulin Rouge, and therefore unable to lift one leg to hip height whilst balancing on the other leg. So, what if I backed up the attic stairs, to the height of the offending bolt, and then stepped out of said knickers? As I started to put this plan into action, it crossed my mind “what if nephew wakes up with all this movement and finds his beloved auntie climbing the stairs to the attic, wearing practically nothing but a smile?” By the time you explain your predicament to him, he has already been traumatised and will probably never speak to you again. Worse (can it get any worse than this?), the brother could possibly wake up for a call of nature, to find his sister apparently sneaking up the attic stairs to where his 15 year old son sleeps. Or worse again, your husband comes out...... I am by now soaked in sweat and panicking. The call of nature has become stronger with every passing minute – remember I can SEE the toilet, and my mind is now taunting me with this.
Now, I’m not going to tell you what happened next. Have a bit of fun and supply your own ending....................