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a cup of tea, to try and offset the half a bottle of wine and two beers that we had both con-
sumed.
'What are you doing?' I asked Ben, who had been in the kitchen for some time.
'I'm just washing my pants,' he slurred.
'Ok. Why?'
'Cos they haven't been washed for days.'
'So you thought that midnight on a canal boat would be the best time to wash them?
Have you not learned from my mistakes? How are you going to dry them?'
'You'll see. You'll see.'
I sat there with a cup of tea in one hand and the remains of my beer in the other and
listened to an Elvis Costello CD that we found in the cupboard. I was disturbed by a famil-
iar humming noise.
'Are your pants in the microwave?'
'Yep, they sure are. Two minutes should do it.'
'That's genius,' I said, jumping from my seat and joining Ben in the kitchen.
It was very odd to stand and watch a pair of Union Jack boxer shorts rotate on a mi-
crowaveplate.It'snotsomethingIhadeverdonebefore,norsomethingIcaneverimagine
doing in the future.
DING.
'They're done!' said Ben excitedly.
He took the boxer shorts out of the microwave.
'Shit!' he said, throwing them to me. 'They're bloody hot.'
'Arghh,' I said, catching them, 'and they're not even dry. It's like an extreme version of
thosehottowelsthatyougetinanIndianrestaurant.Except,I'mnotwashingmyfacewith
these. What's this brown stain on the arse?'
'That wasn't there before!' shouted Ben.
'It's a burn mark! You've burnt your pants and now you've got a permanent skid mark
on your arse.'
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