Panic. I surprised my husband wearing my panties, bra, scarf...

Phone rings. A long lost acquaintance. Chatter. I can sense there's more under it.

So what's the real purpose ? Well, delicate since well, that good friend of hers has sudden family issues and, maybe, I could agree to see her?

Yep. I gave that up, people miseries started to get under my own skin, but... Ok, if the aim is to help the friend of a friend... Reluctantly I agree.

Coffee machine set, my spouse baked a fabulous cake, we wait. There she is. Sorry to disturb, high emotional tide in a big heap of a Lady.

Let her talk. Drain, squeeze-out as much as she can, business as usual, what's beneath the gibberish matters when we get down there.

A picture emerges, the one of a woman I wouldn't advise anyone to share a life with. Those past 15 years might have been quite a challenge for her husband. A line with minus signs appears on my notepad, one for every wasted year.

Yes, she came earlier without advice, the general assembly of that charity dogooders junket had few items on the agenda, and there the horror show, ignominious husband in her room.

Her room ? Yes precisely, her room. Ah, ok, sorry, my bad...

Yes, lost in hastily desperate efforts to get out of the bra he had stolen from her drawer... With equally stolen panties and, ultimate horror, one of her precious scarves.

Obviously she trashed all undignified items and finished crying before their kid came from his piano lesson.

What was the reaction of her husband ? Reaction ? What reaction ? He went to his room and avoided confrontation. Until next morning when he was notified of an upcoming divorce. Not a word ever since.

Quick damage assessment. Those two hate-birds have comfortable situations. Outside of their home sweet home that is. The kid will be eighteen in less than 4 years. How much marriage is there to save?

Chances that this scriptures-washed do-gooder in designer jeans could eventually understand what urges her husband in her equally design bra drawer ? Virtually zero.

We can safely spare the conciliation, waste no time on her wearing jeans instead of a skirt as gender appropriate dress code would call for, not even attempt to clarify when, if ever, those two had recreational fun in bed.

Love has turned annoyance, the only thing they have in common is the street number.

As distressful as it gets. No wonder I gave that up. One can only help those gifted with enough understanding to accept help. Which was not anymore the case. Too much damaging years on the clock.

Hope never dies as they say. One day, after the commotion is long forgotten, they'll be fine. Who'll keep the house is of little importance. In a sense it's already burned down to the basement. Haunted ruins of an era.

Freedom's ahead, one last effort.

Closed my useless by now notebook. Only lawyers, which I am not, can negotiate a truce.

No, your husband is not ill and consequently can not be cured. What urges him in your drawers is a phenomenon by far more powerful than your beliefs and acquired convictions.

Instinctively he realizes the resulting incompatibilities and the fact that he kept his secret for so long illustrates his desperate efforts to save your union.

Now it's time to be wise and seize the opportunity to negotiate a non mutually-destructive separation.