Knickers, or, in Southern African speak, panties

One of life’s little mysteries solved!

As you probably know my husband and I spend most of our free time walking.  I say because it’s free, but it’s also a way of being outside, not confined to either a boat or a flat or a pretend house.  By pretend, I mean a terraced house which is pretending to be something other than cheek by jowl living.  It is not that we have anything against them, but it just reinforces the lack of freedom and space that informs us, on such a deeply conditioned level.  Even though, within South Africa, latterly, I experienced what my mother has described in a letter to me as, ‘During your life you have experienced material want, if not poverty.’ 

Notwithstanding that, there was always a sense of space which was not determined by money, although the house I rented in Howick had no floors to the cupboards and showed bare earth, where termites had damaged the integrity of the lining. 

 

Big spaces make for big expression, louder and more expansive gestures in respect of self expression too.  Which Southern African person cannot envision back slaps of, ‘Howzit boet,’ at volume or screams of, ‘Sissie,’ accompanied by joyful bright contrasted smiles and wobbling layers of dark skin, enveloping, smelling of lifebuoy, kissing, hugging, cuddling and more.

So, here we find ourselves, once more walking in the countryside, albeit that now we have added the cost saving and joyful dimension of foraging for fungi!  It all started in Swedish forests, when we learned, through some trial, but fortunately no error, to identify, pick responsibly and cook Chanterelles and Trat Kantarelle; translated here as winter Chanterelles.

Chanterelles (found in Sweden, delicious)

 We spend most weekends trawling local forests, looking for the as yet, elusive, golden, lip-smackingly wonderful nuggets that, although not easy to find in Sweden, were at least abundant, once you got your eye in.

We have successfully identified some boletus, and cooked them, sans the protein, in the form of maggots, which are quick to invade the flesh.  We have also found wood blewits, sort of mauve/brown coloured mushrooms, as well as amethyst deceivers, whose only deceit, as far as I can tell, is that they purport to be deadly but are, in fact, not.  They’re a lively colourful addition to salad and add a slight crunch and peppery taste.  I also have it on exceedingly good authority that mushrooms have high vitamin D content, which makes them essential food for SAD sufferers.

With my hyper vigilance awakened, through being triggered by the horrific event in South Africa, I have been on high alert and very observant!  One of my observations, as we made our way from the parking lot to the forest was the sudden appearance of a pair of black knickers.  I have long been puzzled by seeing random bits of underwear, lying in unlikely places.  I am not talking about the hastily discarded pair of tights in a back alley or the odd glove, scarf, mitten or even sock.  But knickers materialising on a path leading to a forest in Dorset arrested my attention.

 

I think, possibly, that my husband said, ‘Where did those come from?’  From eye height, I wasn’t going to give any closer inspection but they looked at once familiar.  The label, in fact, was a dead giveaway.  Would that I could say that it was some fashionable designer lingerie label, but no, it was a familiar Primark, multi-pack, labelled pair that probably claimed them to be, ‘Agent de Provocateur,’ or some such.

 

‘They look just like mine,’ I said, trapped between stopping to pick up someone else’s knickers and the sure knowledge that I had, somehow, lost a pair of my own, which would linger, genetically imprinted on the path.

‘Don’t pick them up!’ instructed my husband, halting me mid way, in the twilight zone of thought and action.

‘But what if they are mine and they have my genetics on them?’

‘Well,’ he reasoned, ‘has anyone ever taken a sample from you; because if not, there is nothing of you on record.  They would need to match up whatever there is, with something they already have.’

His practical take on the situation allayed some of my fear, though, still, the idea of my knickers lying publicly for all to see made me feel slightly paranoid and of course, hyper vigilance means that authority terrifies me.  I feel under intense scrutiny and as though I have nowhere to hide.  I suppose that is where the big bad God image, watching me, knowing my every thought, comes in.  It’s no wonder that I have moved on, not a moment too soon, from the ultimate judge of everything I do, conscious, unconscious, privately, in my sleep and within my head.

With prodding, I managed to move on from the fear of some detective being hot on the heels of my trail of knickers’ residue (Sarah calls it snail’s trail) which thankfully had landed gusset down.  The new, pressing worry, was now about who or what may be lurking in the forest in wait for me, especially, the person, thing or being that could see that my husband was more than visual distance from me before making its move.  He has never, quite, understood that moving off, outside of my eyesight, is not comfortable for me.  The discomfort goes beyond the practicalities of who has the car keys and how long it’s going to be before one or the other makes it back to the car, to wait, whilst the other gets more deeply soaked by the inclement weather, in their search for the other, rather than fungi.

 

And yes, I can be criticised for not carrying my mobile because I invariably don’t.  I hate the bloody thing, can’t hear it most of the time and forget to charge it the rest of the time.  But I do keep an eagle eye on his whereabouts, most of the time, and it is only when I am deeply distracted that panic ensues.

 

It was the following day, when I was getting Monday’s washing ready for the machine that the penny, slowly, dropped.  I had shaken my jeans, to dislodge the tights, knickers and socks that had come off in one seamless move, when I undressed!  Being in the habit, sometimes, of wearing the same pair of jeans on two consecutive occasions, it occurred to me that there was every chance that I had forgotten about, say, a pair of Primark knickers, lodged inside.  So when I pulled on the jeans, over nice, fresh, sparkling, Comfort softened knickers, I had forgotten about the danger, lurking just inside.

Slowly, the offending pair must have inched their way down my inside leg and found freedom, miraculously on a path on the way to a forest.  So, that is my story and I’m sticking to it, mystery solved.  However, there is a lesson learned and that is, ‘Always, always check your jeans, especially on day two, to make sure that a pair of knickers or tights, aren’t lurking within, waiting to course their way to deep embarrassment and possible arrest!’  What for, I have no idea, but then who knows what goes on inside my hyper vigilant mind?  Well, me, as it so happens; I am slowly starting to understand what makes me tick, and boy, is it something of a relief!