“I have been thinking about the sock.”
Professor Quillibrace looked over the top of his newspaper.
“That sounds ominous.”
“The sock on the fence.”
“I know which sock you mean.”
“Good.”
Miss Stray was arranging biscuits on a plate.
“What have you discovered?”
“The underlying meaning.”
Quillibrace sighed.
Stray looked interested.
Blottisham leaned forward.
“The sock is displaced.”
“Yes,” said Stray.
“It is separated from its proper pair.”
“Yes.”
“It is discovered by a beetle.”
“No,” said Stray. “The beetle discovers the sock.”
Blottisham frowned.
“An important distinction.”
“Apparently.”
“The spider then encounters it.”
“Yes.”
“And the magpie moves it.”
“Yes.”
“Therefore the sock passes through a series of relations.”
Quillibrace folded his newspaper.
“Does it?”
“It is moved from one context to another.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is, in this case.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what happens.”
Quillibrace looked at Stray.
“I'm beginning to fear he may have stumbled upon the narrative.”
Stray smiled.
“But the sock doesn't seem to change.”
“Ah!” said Blottisham.
He pointed at her.
“Exactly.”
“The sock remains a sock.”
“Which proves my thesis.”
“What thesis?”
“That identity persists through relational transformation.”
Quillibrace stared at him.
“The sock falls into grass.”
“Yes.”
“It gets rained on.”
“Yes.”
“A magpie moves it.”
“Yes.”
“A girl finds it.”
“Yes.”
“She takes it home.”
“Yes.”
“She washes it.”
“Yes.”
“And eventually it is reunited with its other sock.”
“Yes.”
“Therefore—”
“Therefore,” said Quillibrace, “someone lost a sock.”
Blottisham stopped.
Stray laughed.
“That is unnecessarily reductive.”
“It is also entirely accurate.”
“But surely the story is asking us to think about displacement.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Blottisham looked at the page.
“In the fence.”
“No.”
“In the sock.”
“No.”
“In the narrative structure.”
Quillibrace waited.
Blottisham frowned.
“In the reader.”
“That is a dangerous place to put it.”
Stray sat down.
“I think the interesting thing is that nothing particularly interesting happens.”
Blottisham looked offended.
“Excuse me?”
“The sock is lost.”
“Yes.”
“It is found.”
“Yes.”
“It is moved around.”
“Yes.”
“It is reunited with its pair.”
“Yes.”
“And that's about it.”
Blottisham shook his head.
“No. There must be more.”
“Why?”
“Because we are discussing it.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“A devastating argument.”
Stray looked at Blottisham.
“Perhaps the story is simply about a sock.”
Blottisham stared at her.
“That cannot be the case.”
“Why not?”
“Because then why would anyone write it?”
Quillibrace returned to his newspaper.
“An excellent question.”
Blottisham stood up.
“I refuse to believe that an author would devote several hundred words to a sock without concealing something beneath the surface.”
“Perhaps,” said Stray, “the author was watching a sock.”
“Why?”
“Because it was there.”
Blottisham looked genuinely troubled.
“So there is no deeper meaning?”
Quillibrace glanced over the newspaper.
“There may be.”
Blottisham brightened.
“What is it?”
“I don't know.”
“Professor!”
“I merely said there may be one.”
“But how can we know?”
“We can't.”
Blottisham sat down again.
Stray pushed the plate of biscuits towards him.
“Have one.”
He took a biscuit.
They sat quietly for a moment.
Then Blottisham said:
“I still think the sock represents something.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“Probably laundry.”
Stray laughed.
And for once, nobody tried to stop him.
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