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Mystic socks
5 May 2006
Bizarre - I come out of my office, and there on the landing is a pair of socks. All balled up neatly, the way so many people keep their pairs together, and I don't. These are, definitively, not my socks.
Barry thinks they're his. Which, in a sense, they are; but they were never made for his slender feet, they are a man's socks and I do not recognise them.
All right, it is true, other men do pass through this place, and some do leave intimate articles behind them (it's a rule, apparently not unique to me: if you want to come back to a place, take something from that place away with you, and leave something of your own behind). And it is true that I have a young fetter - sorry, ferret - sorry, cat - in the house, who will keep digging in strange & inaccessible places. It is not inconceivable that he should have turned up a ball of someone else's socks in some remote corner of my house, tho' it is frankly not high on my list of likelihoods or events-to-be-expected.
Even so: it's still a moment of weirdness, appropriate to a weird day. I'm wandering around the house waiting to be picked up, which I hate anyway, it's just dead time; and today I'm waiting to go to a funeral, an old friend who died badly, wrongly, which adds a whole new level of strangeness.
I don't think I'm going to adopt these socks.
© Chaz Brenchley 2006
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.