Forty-One Socks

(Friday afternoon at the swimming pool on Clissold Road.)

Oskar: Sorry, is there a lost property box?

Bridie: There’s a cupboard. What did you lose?

Oskar: One sock. Blue.

Bridie: Right. (Bridie opens the cupboard door.)

Oskar: How many things are in there?

Bridie: I counted on Monday. Forty-one socks, one shoe, three umbrellas, a wooden spoon and a coat.

Oskar: A spoon?

Bridie: Don’t ask about the spoon.

Oskar: Can I search it?

Bridie: You can look. Don’t make a mess. There’s a separate box for keys and phones, and that one stays shut.

Oskar: Forty-one socks. So how many pairs?

Bridie: None.

Oskar: None?

Bridie: Not one pair, in four years. I have a theory.

Oskar: Go on.

Bridie: Nobody loses two socks. If you lose both, your feet are cold, so you look for them. If you lose one, you put your shoe on and you go home.

Oskar: That’s… actually quite good.

Bridie: I know. And they all get washed once a year, in June, and nobody ever comes back for one.

Oskar: So where do the other socks go?

Bridie: Home. In the bag. With the wet towel.

(Oskar opens his bag and looks inside.)

Oskar: Bridie.

Bridie: Yes?

Oskar: It’s in my bag.

Bridie: With the wet towel?

Oskar: With the wet towel.

Bridie: Then my theory is working, and you can shut the door on your way out.