Once when I was in London, I dropped my beanie somewhere near the Houses of Parliament. I was halfway across Westminster Bridge before I noticed. I was crushed. I loved that beanie. I got it in Bulgaria. It had ugly little flaps that tie under your chin. It was the one thing that kept me from dying during the cold European winters.
Anyway, I walked slowly back towards the station, keeping a look out for it. You never know, I thought, it could just be lying on the footpath somewhere. A little trampled, maybe, but still okay.
And sure enough, just outside the Tesco Express, I found my beanie. It was neatly folded and sitting on a low wall. Someone had picked up my scungy beanie and taken care of it. I love London.
I’m not sure that if I found a sock on George Street I would pick it up and tie it around a tree, but you never know.