I, sockless, wander around the town. Where are my special lucky socks? Sandals look naked with nothing purple glimpsing through. And they’re harder on the feet. I feel through my soles, through the souls; it’s how I soothsay. What if I can’t soothsay without my socks? Doubt floods into my mind, drowning my happy synapses. Yes, I know the stench that usually surrounds me emanates from those socks but that is part of their mystic quality. My plummeting mood descends to conclusion. Someone has stolen my wonderful stinky socks; someone who knows. My last remnants of soothsaying spiral around my rusting brain and land on Madame Longstocking, my arch rival, her with the stripy legs and fulsome garters. Damn that witch, samsoning my power.
I stump in flat-foot-sore sandals to her house and there on Longstocking’s washing line are my socks, clean. Robbed of all remarkable properties. I pull them down and crumple onto the ground, crushing some petunias.
Madame comes out to greet me, ‘You’re welcome.’
‘What have you done, you wicked woman?’
‘Eco wash, 30 degrees, fabric softener, extra spin. And get out of my flowerbed.’
I shake my soft sweet-smelling socks at her. ‘I’ll never soothsay with these!’
‘No, but you might get a girlfriend.’