A sartorial disaster strikes!
We have gone away for the weekend, and it only as we arrive and unpack that I realise I have neglected to pack any socks.
The number of socks in my overnight bag is this: Zero socks.
You can understand my distress and confusion at this catastrophe, and there is only one thing for it: TO THE SHOPS!
Alas, there is no branch of Sock Shop in the village, nor any shop at all that sell socks over the counter to consenting adults. None, except for the local charity shop.
"I'll take these," I say, handing over the least-worn pair to the assistant.
"That'll be a pound fifty. Want to Gift Aid it?"
"Yes. Yes I will," I reply, "but please tell me one thing before I pay."
She looks at me quizically.
"I am quizical. Proceed."
I draw a deep breath, and avoid looking into her eyes, for this is the queston that dare not be asked. But ask it I must.
"Has anybody died in these socks?"