"Trust you to get it all wrong," I laughed, "for it wasn't my diaries that she mistakenly packed in her bags, but those of my grandfather, who was a prisoner of war in Italy, and maintained a log while there, and which he had given to me for safekeeping." "And which are where now?" my wife asked somewhat nastily, as she put away the silver without even bothering to give it a shine. "My aunt says she misplaced them," I told her, "but she said as soon as she finds them, she'll have them sent back to me." "And this happened when?" my wife asked. I did the mental math: "Er, perhaps fifteen, maybe twenty years ago," I confessed. "Right," retorted my wife, "will you put away the good china, or shall I?"
Perhaps that was the reason she was guarded throughout the visit of my aunt, and no sooner had she left, began the process of counting the towels and the vials of perfume and bottles of shampoo. "Really," I exclaimed, for I thought my wife was taking this too far, "one would think you suspected my aunt of being a kleptomaniac." "Suspecting no," she held up a sliver of soap as evidence, pointing out that my aunt had carried used soaps from home to use here, so she could take away the fresh cakes that had been put out for her use, "telling you yes."
Since my wife is prone to exaggeration, I let the matter pass