sock merchants

Off to Edinburgh today - need socks. I feel like Hugh Laurie's Prince Regent in Blackadder the Third: never enough socks. Sadly, there's no machiavellian butler selling them to a Tunisian sock merchant. Life would be more interesting with a machiavellian butler. And there'd be an explanation for my sock woes. As it is, I haven't a clue.

Vital though new socks are, there's other business to sort out in Edinburgh. A top secret meeting to deal with one of my top secret projects. A visit to the Dean Gallery (haven't been in 11 years). Maybe some food and a wander. A glance in the windows of a few estate agents. A glance in the window of a literary agency.

And - ohshitI'veonlyjustrememberedthisrightthissecond - a birthday present for my mother. Bollocks. It's on Sunday. There's no mail on Sunday (except for that dreadful newspaper - ba-dum-tum). Bollocks. And I think they're flying to the States tomorrow. And I haven't a clue what to give her. Socks?

Bollocks.