Last night may truly have been the "The Night of Power", for a pair of black pants that went deep underground about two months ago, suddenly resurfaced in the fresh laundry pile.
A miracle certainly, for repeated questioning of the house-mates drew blank stares reminiscent of Foetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Hence it was with great surprise that I pulled the pants in dubious question out of a pile of clothes that had been freshly washed. This implied to me, by no great leap of logical reason, that the pants must've been worn in order for them to have ended up there. Yes? It maketh sense no?
So who's been wearing my pants? The stretchy one with a centre seam down each leg, in a size that accomodates my somewhat healthy and strapping form? When all of the housemates, myself excluded, seem to be blessed with skinny genes, zooped-up metabolism and limited appetites, which compos mentis would deliberately wear a pair of trousers that is clearly identifiable as someone else's by the very virtue of its size?
It is by no means a spectacular pair of black pants. Versatile yes, unassuming and practical, but these are attributes that lend themselves to be definitives for any pair of black pants.
Why would you take someone else's pants without their permission and wear them when they aren't even in your fucking size?