Bobby's not allowed upstairs, so lately he's taken to trophy-hunting. Every morning after breakfast he sneaks off and collects an item of my clothing from my dirty pile on the bedroom floor. (Ladies, I know exactly what you're thinking. I don't know why Anne doesn't clear them up either.)
His favourite item is unquestionably my tight little loin-packets. This doesn't surprise me to be honest. I'm always running out of pairs, and my suspicion is that for years women visitors have been sneaking upstairs and nicking my under-dungies.
Similarly, I expect they take them home and roll around the living-room floor on them, throw them up in the air and catch them on their head, before putting them on their comfort blanket and giving them a damned good sniff and slobber.
I wouldn't mind but there's usually a good few days wear left in them...
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