So, when his name came across my desk – or rather onto the digital device I use these days instead of a desk – I jumped at the opportunity for a second meeting.
Naturally, the address being so far along the Rural Delivery route that it would take most of the day to get there and back, I got organised the night before.
Mrs P came to the fore with a sumptuous lunch box and various other nibbles for the drive. She even gave me a fiver for my Wild Bean coffee. Bless her. Someone really ought to tell her I’ve graduated to the XL size now and that’s $6.90.
Anyway, all I had to do was make sure I had my gear ready.
A colleague told me the location was very much rural Back of Beyond so it would be a good idea to don a pair of work boots in case there was some cross-country ambling required. With this in mind, I went looking for the socks which keep my feet snug inside my work boots.
And that’s where the problem arose. I couldn’t find them even though I spent an age looking.
I was certain they were in the, shall we say, “Occasional wear” section of my wardrobe, along with the Bay City Rollers outfit I wore in the 80s. I keep them just in case My Beloved is feeling in the mood for, ahem, a “stroll” down Memory Lane.
But the socks weren’t there.
Well, that’s not strictly true. I have two pairs. I could only find one the night before. They would have to do, especially as by the following morning, still looking for the good pair, I was running horrendously late.
And that’s why I headed out into the wilderness with one good sock and one with two rather large holes in it. I kid you not, my foot looked like something from Outer Space. More black hole than sock.
It was as if my big toe and heel had had an argument and both stormed off in opposite directions, ripping their way through the fabric like the Incredible Hulk as they parted.
Anyway. With no time to seriously worry about my inappropriate foot attire as I drove, trying to make up time, I reasoned it would all be fine. As long as I kept my work boots on.
So, I’m thinking at this point you can probably see where this story is going. And you’d be right.
I eventually get to this enormous mansion. The very well-dressed and spoken man I’m there to meet greets me at the door, impeccably attired as I recalled, right down to the slippers he wears for interior wanderings, and insists I come in for a cuppa before we conduct business. And yep, you guessed it, I need to take my boots off.
Groan.
Now I’m guessing at some stage Dear Reader, you have faced a similar predicament. Perhaps not on such a major scale as my sock – and it seems a stretch to actually call it that - but perhaps something like a small hole in your black dress sock right where the big toe would normally sit in all its regal splendour.
So what do you do?
Well, like me, you scrunch your foot up as much as possible so the hole(s) disappear underneath the fabric. Sound familiar?
Then you walk sort of oddly. Dragging the foot along the ground so as not to lift it too high and allowing anyone to see the disaster underneath or, in fact, allowing the toe and/or heel to pop out for a look around.
Nine times out of 10 you can get away with that can’t you? For a little while at least.
Unfortunately, in this humble abode I had to walk miles to get to the kitchen where that cuppa awaited. By the time I got there my attempts at hiding my sock holes had given me cramp and I’d developed a quite noticeable limp.
“What happened to you?” inquired my puzzled host, who had seem me confidently stride up the front path not 10 minutes ago without any apparent physical issues.
“Old football injury flaring up,” I heard myself say as the cramp in the arch of my foot tightened its grip.
Luckily, I was able to hide the foot under the table as we had a cuppa and a chat and eventually blood flow was restored. But I knew to avoid any embarrassment I’d need to go through the same process on the 15-mile walk back to the front door.
When the time came to make a move I repeated the process, the discomfort increasing with every step closer to the outside world.
Eventually, we made it and my host decided he’d come outside with me to show me an item in his garden we had been talking about.
I figured while he was removing his slippers and putting on his boots I’d quickly stuff my ugly sock foot back into its boot and the drama would be at an end.
I made the transition with such speed my host was left in my dust. Literally, hopping around in his socks and yabbering on without a care in the world, searching for the gumboots he was sure he’d left at the front door.
While I waited for him to join me outside I looked down and discovered such day-to-day disasters can befall even the smartest of dressers.
His big toe was poking through an equally impressive hole in his sock.
