Pants to that

Next week we are off to Spain where we have a modest terraced house with a (very distant) sea view.
We bought it so that the family could come and stay with us during the holidays - only they don't, so it's usually just us.

The last time we were there things started off badly. The first morning went thus:
Other half (crossly): "I have no underpants. I will have to buy some."

Me: "Were they in the last load of washing we did before we left. Could they by any chance be on the washing line down in the garage?"

I suspect he thinks I binned them. He shrugs and starts rummaging around in the kitchen. Since he retired he has added housework to his list of newly acquired skills.

I make coffee and say nothing when he uses the cloth we use for dishes to wipe the down the garden table and chairs. But when he takes the new broom (the one I bought specially) out to the patio I cannot resist pointing out that it is the indoor broom.

He objects to my tone, insists I am mistaken and tells me to lighten up - then maybe I'd enjoy life more.
He carries on sweeping the patio with the indoor broom.

When I go down to the garage in search of his underpants I spot the outdoor, stiff bristled broom and take it back up with me. I put it where he can see it without saying anything. I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he is not speaking to me.

There were three pairs of pants on the washing line.