The Flying Sock

Just before last Easter I packed up most of my life (about 20% of it stayed in the old stables at my parent's home) and moved to south west London. I rent a small room in a small flat. There's a small kitchen, a small bathroom, no living room because it's used as a storage room instead, and three housemates in two other bedrooms. It's actually quite nice, I have my own space (which I love) but if I need company there's generally always someone in the kitchen I can talk to.

It also means that things can't go missing in the flat. It's too small for you to lose something (although I do occasionally misplace one of my QPR mugs at the back of a cupboard). Sooner or later something will be found. And in my case I'm constantly losing track of my socks. It's rather embarrassing actually, I rarely wear matching socks simply because the other half of a pair will wander off somewhere (generally to the bottom of my laundry basket).

This evening this happened;

Housemate Mon- Biiiiibliophile?
Me- Yeeeeees?

Suddenly it came through my open door, flying through the air with all the grace and aerodynamics of something foot-shaped made of cotton and elastic. It hit the floor like a the lightest potato known to man, and sat there accusingly as if to say "why did you leave me in the storage room? Aren't I good enough for your feet?"

Housemate Mon- Hehehehehe.