Thank you, first and foremost, for housing the essentials (essential now it's winterish.) I notice you've eaten most of the business socks, leaving me with the odd unmatching, uncomfortable ribbed number; the one that goes with nothing and has a big toe hole (a huge lucky-I-paint-my-toenails kind a hole.) You've been reasonable enough, however, to leave me an array of useful running ones, alongside fluffed-up pink girlies (not for public use; fit only for nestling into the sofa with a copy of any Bronte book.) Is this a metaphor for my current pared-back life, one must question?
Thank you also for keeping me on my toes. I hesitate to go over old missing sock territory but is it you or the washing line or the washing machine (or the three of you conspiring) who casually steals and devours socks in ones (never twos)? Do answer me that age old conundrum. I can handle the truth. Come on, sock it to me...
jojobee
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