We had plans for Sunday. Great plans, involving time out doors mowing lawns, weeding and walks in the unseasonably warm spring. But it seems the Scottish weather is back on track. The temperature has plummeted, the sky is overcast and it is drizzling rain.

Instead we are all going to do the job I hate. Pairing socks. Socks go into my washing machine in two’s (well, most of the time) but come out singularly. I once invited my sister around for one of her favourite meals, lasagna, on the understanding she helped me pair socks before she got fed. That was back in the days before she had a family of her own, or lived at the other end of the country.  Six hundred miles is a bit far to travel for supper.

Now a days after drying either in the tumble dryer or on the line, all the socks get tossed in a pile until it gets to the point where we have run out.  That day is at hand.  So the fire is lit in the woodburner ready for our sock pairing party.

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