A sock, one of a pair, belonging to my cousin.
Back in April, I went to Emily’s house on a Saturday night. We had planned to have a couple of drinks at home and then head out to her local for a few more. Instead, we drank too many cosmopolitans; smashed a glass; set off the fire alarm when Emily’s boyfriend told us he thought it would be a good idea if we had something to eat so we made a toasted sandwich and then left the room, completely forgetting about the sandwich on the stove; drew eyeliner moustaches on our faces (and in Emily’s case, an eyeliner tie on her white t-shirt), before both of us promptly fell asleep by 11pm. The shame. I borrowed a pair of socks from her and in the three months that have followed, I keep forgetting to give them back. Combined with us making plans and then cancelling for whatever reasons, I’ve barely even seen her and when I have seen her, I’ve forgotten the socks.
Enter the ransom note. In the strongest example to date of my she’s off her fucking rocker-ness, yesterday I had the idea to craft a ransom note for the socks. I sat at the table, surrounded by tiny letters cut from the pages of magazines, and got the giggles because seriously, a ransom note for a pair of socks? The giggles morphed into full-blown maniacal laughter and I couldn’t catch my breath. A couple of hours later (evil takes time, y’know) and I was done. Today, I am posting the note and one sock to Emily. I expect to be sitting at the head of her table by next week’s end, knife and fork in hand.
Next post coming to you live from the Swanston Centre.