The Curious Case of the Sponge

That sponge didn't just get there by itself. Or did it?

Yesterday afternoon, I opened the fridge and found a sponge staring back at me.  I immediately called hubby at work and tried to force a confession.  For the occasion, I used my best British accent.  Everything sounds so much better in British.  "By any chance, did you leave the sponge in the fridge this morning, love?" "Why no, I don't think so," said hubby, matching my accent, "but might I make a suggestion?" "Oh, yes.  Please do."  After 30 years, hubby and the SJG still address each other with the utmost cordiality.
"You might remove the sponge from the fridge. It's full of germs, and the thought of it just sitting there on the shelf is most unappetizing." "I had every intention of removing it, once I solve the crime.  Until then, the sponge mustn't be tampered with.  I can't have my fingerprints mingling with those of the perpetrator, now can I?" "So this is a who-dun-it, is it?" he asked.  "It is indeed," I said.  "Must we involve Scotland Yard?" "No, I think we can solve this ourselves, darling."  There was an uncomfortable silence, and then, "I can promise you that I didn't do it," he said.  "Didn't you?" "I most certainly didn't."  "Nor did I, my dear." "Oh, but you did, my darling.  I saw you do it, this morning."  "You did not."  "I did."  "Then why didn't you say something?" "I didn't want to be rude, dear.  I know how sensitive you get." "That was very thoughtful of you." "I thought so."  "You're saying I did it, not you?"  "You left the sponge in the fridge."  "Ah.  Then I better take it out."  "Do that."  "Very well.  It's done." "Are we dressing for dinner this evening?" "Don't we always?"