Of course it's never happened before. It's fucking ridiculous. It's something that happens in an annoying middle class sitcom like Miranda. It's something that happens in a Victoria Wood sketch. It's not something that happens in real life.
How many times have you got out of the pool at your local sports club and had your shower and began to get dressed only to realise that your trousers. Just. Aren't. There?
How many times has that happened to anyone in the known universe?
I'll tell you. Once. Yesterday. When it happened to me.
I was in the shower scraping chlorine off my skin when I realised that, as usual, I'd forgotten my knickers. I always forget my sodding knickers when I go for a swim. But, you know, going commando for 10 minutes while I walk home isn't going to hurt anyone, is it?
I'm not a going commando type person so it feels vaguely wrong but I can push that aside.
I start to get my clothes together while holding my towel up around myself. I can't do that thing of letting it drop while I'm among a bunch of strangers. I just can't. I'm clearly way more repressed than these 50-something posh types that I swim alongside.
And then I realise that something's missing. As well as the knickers.
So, the dream we've all had, where we're in a public place and naked, comes true. Doesn't feel good, I can tell you.
My brain starts working out solutions. There seems to be only two. One is walk home entirely naked on my bottom half. Two is tell someone fucking fast before the last two women leave the changing room and I'm entirely alone. Oh, and three. Live in the changing room forever, surviving on skin scraps and the ends of shampoo bottles.
"Um, s...someone's nicked my trousers," I squeak to the nearest posh lady. She looks like all of the posh ladies there. Designer mum jeans, expensive boots, lots of gold and Princess Di hair.
She looks at me like I'm a defective peasant. But that's OK. I have bigger things on my mind right now.
"What do you mean?"
Not sure that I can be any clearer than that, but I dutifully repeat myself, panic starting to rise in my throat.
Then I start to laugh. How in fuck am I in this situation?
Princess Di's friend says: "I have a spare pair of trousers. They might be too small though."
She's easily a size 12. Bitch.
Still, beggars - and naked people - can't be choosers.
I take her trousers (they totally fit. Ha) and thank her profusely.
"Were they expensive looking kit?" says the lady.
"Hell no. A tramp would have rejected them for being too skanky," sez I. I only buy sports kit from Sports Direct for less than the price of a bag of chips. So whoever has stuffed them into their gym bag (clearly by mistake) is going to be confused and disappointed. Unless they were particularly after a mud caked pair of baggy tracksuit bottoms.
You can't walk, jog or run anywhere on this bog of an island without getting covered in mud so I just decided to go with it. It's a look.
I make it out to reception, going commando, in a pair of Princess Di's best friend's trousers. And the guy behind the counter chuckles.
"That's never happened before."
The club has been open since 1939.