Socks and the City

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It’s 8.50am.  Commuters at Embankment station funnel onto the escalator from all directions, heading for the light.

This morning, I’m carrying pudding for a Thanksgiving supper.  A fellow commuter – attractive, suited – glances over at me.  I look away, and back.  He smiles faintly.  We board the escalator; he is just ahead of me, revealing, with each step, a flash of colourful striped sock above his Oxford brogues.  I’ve always liked statement socks…and Oxford brogues.

Escalator #2.  Normally I would walk up on the left hand side, but Stripy Socks is standing to the right.  He half-turns:

‘Have you made a cake?  Do you make a cake every day?’

I laugh and explain what it’s for.

We get to the top of the escalator.  I like him, but I’m not sure what to do next.  I never know what to do before 9am.  I feel it’s my turn to say something, but what?

‘I like your socks!’

He looks stumped.  I’m too embarrassed to say anything else.  Probably for the best.  The ticket barriers provide a welcome reprieve, but then we’re out the other side.  I root around in my bag for my iPod, all the while praying that he will give this pudding-laden sock-fancier the benefit of the doubt.  But no.

If you like the whole cake/public transport combo, check out this MBE classic.

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