Erik Petersen: The naked truth

I'M up in our loft computer room looking for my old driving licence when I find some pictures of naked women.

They're in a pile with other photos my wife has taken – actual, physical, non-Facebook photos, so I know they must be a few years old.

Several are little more than blurry outlines of what looks like people sitting in a sauna.

Another series of photos shows a full-figured nude woman in her 50s standing over a younger woman who appears to be sitting in a barrel.

Generally speaking, in my house there is a dearth of photos of matronly nude women standing over younger women in barrels, so this one catches me off guard.

Their faces are visible and I am relieved to find that I recognise neither of them.

But in one photo there's a third person. She's in a top corner – the picture cuts off her body from mid-torso.

However there's an unobstructed view of mid-torso down, and that's when I start to panic.

Before I sound like a complete sniggering Victorian, let me say that I am not squeamish about the nude form.

My problem is that these are my wife's pictures, so some people in them could be people I know.

I have lived in two countries, America and Britain, and neither of these is really the sort of place that prepares you for seeing your opposite-gender friends in the altogether.

If I were a Scandinavian, perhaps I would suggest we frame the picture and give it to the mystery friend as a Christmas present. "To Ingrid: Lookin' good! Love, the Petersens."

But I'm an acclimatised resident of Britain. I make a note to Google "polite ways to commit hara kiri".

First, however, I walk downstairs to query my wife.

"Honey," I say. "Why do you have photos of naked women in the loft?"

Her eyes narrow. "I don't."

She says this in a tone of voice indicating she believes I have a mucky pictures stash in the loft and rather than hiding it somewhere, I'm attempting the unique gambit of trying to convince her this is something she has done.

But as I describe them, suspicion turns to curiosity.

"Are you sure they're naked?" she asks me.

It is an odd moment in a man's life when his wife casts aspersions on his ability to recognise an image of a naked woman.

"They're naked," I say.

"They are definitely naked."

We proceed to the loft. I produce the photos.

"Oh, these!" my wife says. "I thought I lost these 10 years ago in a Wetherspoon's!"

That is a concern, but I've got more pressing issues. What is going on in these photos?

Turns out: wedding party. A Scandinavian (I knew it!) wedding party.

In true Columbo fashion, I've got just one more question. I proffer the photo in question. There in the corner.

Do I know her?

My wife glances at the naked lower half.

"Nah," she says. "You don't know her."

For my own sake, I am choosing to believe.