K: I really need to do laundry. I'm out of cotton undies and I'm down to the uncomfortable lacy things.

P: You can borrow a pair of mine if you want.

K: Okay, how about -- hey, this one's mine! What are you doing with my undies!

P: It's mine.

K: It's not! Look at the tag -- oh, it says "Hom. Underwear for men."

P: So it's probably mine.

K: And the tag's in Swedish.

P: Mm hmm.

K: Okay, that one's yours. What about this purple ... oh my.

[The pair of undies in question is one that Pär's had ever since I've known him. By this point it is so ripped up that it's almost unrecognisable as underwear; it mostly resembles a thick purple spiderweb. Only the basic elastic structure is still intact. Shredded strips of cotton stretch between the elastic, just enough to remind us that this was once clothing.]

K: I'm throwing these away.

P: You are not! They're fine! [Grabs the undies]

K: There's nothing left of them! They look like little robot rats have been nibbling them away at night.

P: Big Chill undies.

K: Big Chill undies!

P: Say that fast. It sounds like Mexican food. Enchiladas and Big Chill undies.

K: Hey, I wonder if I should join the Army Reserves.

P: What? Why?

K: I don't know, they'd make a man out of me. I'd learn to fly helicopters and stuff.

P: Can you join the Army Reserves at your age?

K: [Staring silently at him.]

P: I mean. I mean, don't you have to be about nineteen?

K: I don't think so... they're not training you to be fodder, they're training you for specialized skills so they can call on you if there's ever a need. And they teach you the confidence to accomplish whatever you want in your everyday life. It says so in the commercial.

P: Well, if you want to do it, then you should do it. But I'm not going to follow you around if they station you in Germany.

K: They would, too, the bastards. "Congratulations, Karen! To test your loyalty to us, we will now be shipping you off to Germany." But maybe I could get to be an officer. Then I could boss people around. That would rule.

P: I think that would require more commitment on your part. I don't think they make you an officer when you're just a weekend warrior.

K: Fuck you! Don't call me no weekend warrior! I'd be a butt-kicking army officer!

P: It could happen.

K: Probably I'd sign up and get there and say "Hello, please teach me how to fly helicopters and stuff" and they'd be like, "Uh huh, now come stand over here and peel these spuds for a few months."

P: Or they'd have you in an office filing papers by frog extension.

K: "By frog extension"?

P: Err, by some obscure filing system... gnaagh, you know what I mean!

K: Ow! Stop hitting me with your undies!

P: [whaps me again with the undies]

K: You know, that might possibly have almost hurt, if there were any actual substance left in those things.

P: [proudly] I'm going to wear them today.

K: [gently] Don't you think maybe... maybe they've reached that point where it's time to let them go?

P: Get out of here! Go away! My undies! Mine!

He's right, of course. The relationship between a man and his underwear is very personal, and it's not for the likes of me to interfere with that.