The Day I Lost My Knickers

I hate calling in sick. I don’t do sick days unless I’m actively auditioning for the afterlife. If I can still blink and drag one leg behind the other, I generally clock in and let capitalism finish me off properly. But this morning, I feel like death itself has chewed me up, spat me out, and then reversed over me for good measure — just to check the job was done. Every inch of me aches. My head throbs like a nightclub at closing time. I’m swinging violently between Arctic tundra and menopausal lava flow. Standing upright feels wildly ambitious. Breathing feels like an optional extra I can’t really justify. Naturally, the office informs me that sick days are now a thing of the past. Completely forbidden. Apparently illness has been phased out in favour of resilience and quiet suffering. So here I am. Still wrapped in a duvet. Pyjamas on. Bracing myself for another day in this fluorescent hell cavern. Everyone is giving me a respectful two-metre exclusion zone, as if I’m sweating bubonic plague. “Mate,” Ade says, squinting at me. “You look like death.” Ever the poet. I nod weakly and hobble towards my frame, moving with all the elegance of a peg-legged pirate on stilts. The managers, in a rare outbreak of humanity, offer me an hour’s kip. Paul drags out an ancient mattress that looks like it once survived a small fire, several divorces, and a minor civil war, and dumps it in the middle of the office. “Clock starts now,” he says, tapping his watch. Lovely. Nothing says restorative rest like sleeping on a crime-scene sponge while your colleagues parade around you in steel-toed boots. I don’t even argue. I curl into the foetal position and let the mattress cradle my broken soul. The sheets are vaguely crunchy. I choose not to probe any further. The radio blares. Phones ring. Feet thunder past my head. Someone drops something heavy near my spine like a casual assassination attempt. My body shivers uncontrollably. Luke wanders over and offers to “warm me up.” Normally I’d have several questions. Today, hypothermia has stripped me of dignity and decision-making skills. I let him big-spoon me. His warmth seeps into my bones. It’s oddly comforting, like a human hot water bottle with attachment anxiety and no concept of personal space. I start to drift — A klaxon explodes directly into my skull. I levitate off the mattress like a startled cat. “Hour’s up. Back to work,” the manager says, already hauling the mattress away. Luke remains asleep on it, unconscious cargo being pulled into oblivion. The scene is pulled away with it. I’m suddenly in a massive arena, crushed shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of strangers. It’s part Hunger Games, part Squid Game, and a particularly unhinged episode of Fun House. I’m half expecting Pat Sharp to come sprinting out at any moment, mullet first, energetic twin sidekicks in tow, clapping like this is all perfectly normal. Matching tracksuits bind us together — aggressively, retina-searing pink, stripping away individuality and dignity in one fluorescent sweep. The colour alone makes me question my own existence. A gigantic transparent piggy bank descends from the ceiling. Inside: mountains of cash. At least a million quid. The air is thick with desperation. People immediately start narrating their future like a game of sob-story battles. “I’m opening an orphanage for cats.” “I just want a new tooth,” says a bloke, pulling his lip aside to reveal a crater where a tooth once lived. A bearded man announces he’s planning a full Harry Potter themed wedding. I internally judge him and briefly fantasise about flinging him into a ball pit. Everyone is convinced they deserve the money more than anyone else. It’s incredible how quickly humans transform into feral goblins when loose change is involved. A whistle screams. We surge forwards. It’s chaos. Ladders, chutes, ropes, tunnels — a funhouse engineered by someone who actively dislikes knees. People shove and scramble. Someone elbows my kidney. Something primordial ignites inside me and I ram a bloke so hard he topples over. I step right over him, vengeance fuelled by memories of steel boots trampling my sick body earlier. I’m flying now. Swinging. Sliding. Climbing. Laughing like a lunatic. Until — I see them. My knickers. Red. Frilly. Unmistakably mine. Dangling from the bottom of someone’s trainer like a flapping token of humiliation in lace. My stomach drops into my socks. I check under my joggers. Confirmed. Commando catastrophe. My entire existence condenses into one singular mission: retrieve the rogue underwear before civilisation collapses entirely. I chase the shoe-host. Swipe at the fabric like a desperate magpie. They’re too fast. Too motivated by greed to respect my dignity. The knickers detach and tumble free — only for a sweaty lunatic to grab them and mop his forehead with them like a Tour de France hand towel. I scream internally. He flings them aside. I dive for them — miss — someone boots them forwards — bodies stampede — they vanish again, now clinging to another runner’s back like a cursed cape. Up ladders. Down slides. I’m panting, sweating, mortified and increasingly furious at textile betrayal. They disappear into a ball pit. Of course they do. A man emerges wearing them as a bandana. I briefly consider homicide. I crawl through a circular hatch and nearly collide with Rachel, one of my managers. She’s stroking her chin thoughtfully like a troubled detective. “Hi Rachel,” I gasp. “Everything okay?” “It’s Owen,” she sighs. “He’s not quite right.” I suppress a laugh. You could say anyone who wears a flat cap under the age of twenty in modern times isn’t quite right. She gestures to Owen standing motionless in the corner, eyes vacant, soul visibly on annual leave. He looks shellshocked. Like he’s seen things. Too many missed deliveries, probably. “He hasn’t been right since we told him it’s a seven-day week.” Understandable. Seven-day weeks should be illegal. “I hope you feel better soon, old bean.” I say, patting his flat cap gently and sprinting back into the madness. Bandana Man has abandoned the knickers on a climbing wall foothold. A savage thief steals them again. I climb after them, limbs trembling with rage and flu and a dwindling will to live. At the top: the finish line. I cross it by accident. Cheers erupt. “You’ve won!” I blink. Me? Winner? The piggy bank swings above. I briefly imagine my dream house in the woods — all timber, sunlight, silence, sanity. A man smashes the piggy bank with a sledgehammer like he has a personal vendetta against pigs. “It’s mine,”he snarls. “You’re runner-up,” he adds, gesturing to a table of pathetic plastic trophies. I pick one up. The engraving reads: UNLUCKY. “The bastards,” someone groans. It’s Ash. “It’s not even proper bronze.” she moans. Then she brightens. “Oh Mand — these yours?” She produces the red knickers from her pocket. My face glows the exact same shade. “They might need a wash. Sixty degrees. God knows where they’ve been.” I stuff them into my pocket like illegal contraband. We laugh. And then — I wake up. I’m back in the office. Crusty mattress beneath me. Still sick. Still exhausted. Still vaguely damp with sweat. I shift slightly and feel something unfamiliar in my pocket. My stomach tightens. Slowly, carefully, I pull out the red knickers. Relief floods me. Thank God. Just a dream. My dignity survives another day. I start to tuck them back into my joggers. And then I notice the label. Victoria's Secrets? Way too spicy for me. Definitely not my size. Absolutely not mine. I stare at the unfamiliar elastic in horror as footsteps approach. Someone clears their throat behind me. “Amanda,” a voice says gently. “Why are you holding my knickers?” I laugh — a short, startled bark of disbelief, like something breaking loose inside of me and finally giving up the fight. All this time I've been chasing shame — breathless, panicked — only to discover it was never mine to wear.