**A Shotgun Wedding, or How I Became a Husband Because of Underwear and Sheer Stubbornness**
*”Put on your knickers and get down here! I’ll be outside your flat in five!”* I barked into the phone the second she picked up.
Honestly, the knickers bit was just a joke. I thought she’d laugh. Instead, she went quiet, then whispered:
*”How d’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’s… covering yourself.”*
*”OH MY GOD!”*
The line went dead. She’d hung up. But five minutes later, another call:
*”Hi… it’s me… signal dropped.”*
I didn’t let her breathe. *”You sure that lace suits you, by the way?”*
*”OH!”*
She slammed the phone down again. This time for hours. Then…
*”How do I look now?”* Her voice was cautious, teasing.
*”How should I know? I was joking!”*
*”Joking?”* A pause. *”Joking. And here I was, dressing up special for you.”*
*”Right, I’m on my way!”* Ten minutes later, I was at her door.
I rang forever. No answer. Pushed the door—unlocked. Stepped inside. Silence. Half-dark. Not a soul. Just as I thought I’d walked into a trap of loneliness, masked blokes in tactical gear stormed in.
Turns out, the flat was under surveillance. A *”triggered unauthorised entry alarm.”* They nearly let me off—claimed it was a mistake. But like a proper berk, I lingered. And since I was there, I made the best of it. Played a round of *”three-card brag”* with the coppers. Won—not much, but enough for pride. A bottle of whisky and a couple hundred quid on the way out. Practically profited.
I limped out of the station, groaning loudly, playing the victim. Her car was parked outside. She waited. I pretended not to see her, hobbled past, turned the corner, and ducked into a doorway.
She searched. Didn’t find me. I went home and switched off my phone. By morning, the voicemail was set: *”Hello! I’m in hospital. If I survive, I’ll call back.”*
Later, I heard she’d rung every A&E in London. Found nothing, then drove to casualty wards herself. Until someone let slip they’d seen me in town—bottle in hand, grinning like a fool.
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 they need a witness!”*
Twenty-four hours till the registry office. The longest day of my life. I stewed, regretted, raged, relented, stewed again. By dusk, I admitted I couldn’t live without her. By midnight, I decided I didn’t deserve her. By dawn, I convinced myself: *Be a man. See it through. Even if Mars sounds tempting.*
*”Worse it gets, better it’ll be,”* I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Outside the registry, forty-odd familiar faces crowded. My humiliation—just another layer on the wedding cake.
We were called in. Mendelssohn’s *Wedding March*—that executioner of grooms—played. Then the registrar announced our names. I blinked.
Two minutes later, I was married. Done. The reception? Loud, lavish, ruinous.
Later, alone at last, she asked: *”Well? Happy?”*
*”Chuffed,”* I said, meaning it. *”But… if I hadn’t shown, what then? All that money wasted—”*
*”Don’t fret. I booked it in your name.”*
And that’s us. Accidentally. But not by mistake.
