Exploding Trousers

We wore exploding trousers and held on tight to the skin of the hamster as if it was any other ordinary Thursday afternoon.

‘These are not my damsons,’ she said, turning towards the controls for the electronic reindeer.

‘Don't touch those!’ I cried. ‘They are not meant to be utilised by a naked woman who has recently been smothered in low-fat margarine.’

‘What should I do then?’ she replied. There was a hint of anger in her voice. I knew this could threaten a limit on the amount of time she would allow me to use the devices on her. I leant over and pressed the button in eager anticipation, feeling the thrill of the vibrations, even through the rubber plumber's outfit I was wearing.

‘Where's the stoat,’ she said suddenly. ‘Oh, no!’

‘What?’

‘I think it has escaped.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly. Just over there to be precise.’ She pointed. At least that explained the smell. I'd been too polite to mention it before, remembering the number of pickled eggs she'd eaten the previous evening.

‘He's gone now,’ she sounded dejected. ‘What shall we do now?’

I knew it was no use now. She wouldn't even contemplate it, not without the stoat, or the weasel. I switched the devices off and set up the Ludo board.