Sitting at a bistro table in the sun, Edinburgh has stretched itself out in the light and warmth; though in truth it’s not as warm as we’re all pretending.
We’re cold pints and calamari, I’m telling Kate about the This American Life episode where they double blind taste tested squid rings versus deep fried pig rectum.
We stil eat the calamari.
Out of the bar, a waiter.
Black apron, neat tie, neater facial hair.
He drops something on top of a barrel beside us.
“Anyone lost a…sock?”
“Just found it lying in the doorway…weird.”
We joke about checking our feet, but we’re confident we haven’t lost any socks, thanks.
He returns to clearing tables around us.
In the interests of confidentiality, I shift into sign.
EEEEESH. AWKWARD. LOOKS LITTLE BIT LIKE MY SOCKS!
EXACTLY SAME YOUR SOCKS. EXACTLY. Kate answers.
She’s right, it does, black and grey. I have dozens of the things, because I figure nobody ever faced death wishing they’d spent more time pairing socks.
She continues, YOUR TROUSERS NEW TODAY?
YES CLEAN, NEW
MAYBE DROP WALKING? THAT YOUR SOCK DEFINITELY…WANT IT?
We return to beer and snacks, finish and settle up.
“Last chance…” she teases me.
“I’ll buy another pair…”
Because what it if wasn’t?
Surely there is little worse than dropping your underwear in a public place?
Except maybe rescuing and adopting someone elses?