This morning while I was hanging out the laundry, most of which was accumulated by HRH while he was away at a conference, I came across a sock without a partner. This isn’t that unusual, right? The washer is like the Bermuda Triangle of Footwear. The strange part is that it is a lady’s sock, but not mine.
Someone remind me please what year this is… 1954?
My first thought was, “Dumb@ss should have at least gotten some panties!”
HRH insists the sock is his; he ran out and needed a pair, but there were no other black socks in the store.
Methinks he deserves a quarterstaff to the hindquarters, whatever the truth. Learn to master the washing machine, Young Man, before you Go West.