There comes a time in every mans life when he realises that his socks are no longer socially acceptable. The woollen rags I usually depend on have reached such a state of disintegration that they can no longer be formally identified as footwear. Excuse me a minute. I may need to spend some money and that requires me to psyche up for a terrifying ordeal. Opening my wallet is not for the faint-hearted.

Return To Your Homes. Nothing To See Here

Okay, you can all relax. My wallet is open and I survived the trauma with only several bruises and a strange twitch of my facial muscles.

A Not So Funny Thing Happened On The Way...

With a fine day to enjoy I set out for the shop of choice where I knew unfashionable socks that express my desire for breaking social convention could be found. Approaching the big twin roundabout that straddles the the Great Western main line, I could see long lines of slow moving traffic. That's odd. Surely the planners haven't messed up that badly? Traffic normally flows smoother than that. I guess there must be some sort of hold-up.

And there was. With hordes of police on the scene, an overturned refuse lorry was blocking the larger roundabout the other side of the line. A mobile crane was setting the crashed vehicle to rights while traffic was diverted around it in all sorts of directions.

Passing the scene I asked an onlooker what was going on. Apparently a car had cut across in front of the lorry whose driver took avoiding action, and with the roundabout built on sloping ground to begin with, the thing had turned over. Luckily no-one was seriously hurt but I suspect the car driver isn't feeling too comfortable right now.

Sock Update

Okay, you can all relax again. Replacement socks were purchased without any needless embarrasement. I even managed to walk past the police at the accident scene without being arrested for carrying them in public.

Job Vacancy Of The Week

There's a jobsite on the internet that I subscribed to some time ago. Almost every day they send me lists of vacancies that are supposed to fit my chosen criteria. The majority are never that close to home. There comes a point where walking to work becomes a serious expedition across the Wiltshire rainforest, so I generally don't worry about those.

A couple of days ago the list included more vacancies than usual. A bunch of army jobs dealing with logistics in various places beyond the horizon. They even apologised and politely reminded the reader that they may require the applicant to travel abroad. Oh? Really? Are we finally invading Spain after decades of reconnaisance missions?

Actually they do a good deal with plenty of opportunities to achieve qualifications up to and including a degree in logistics. Not bad for a few years of getting shouted at. For me though that would mean losing my home and in all likelihood everything I own. In that light, the deal sort of goes sour. So I didn't bother looking any further.

I got an email yesterday. The army wants me. Personally. Shucks, guys, I'm honoured, but do you know I'm over forty years of age? Oh let's be honest. I'm nearer fifty. If the drill sergeant tells me to give him twenty push-ups, I'll probably die of old age. Worst still, I'd have to make sure my socks were clean. I think I've suffered enough trauma for now.