Argyle. How could anything really look good in argyle?
It isn’t so much a pattern as the result of a weaver having a drunken session at a loom. It sounds like a bad alarm, and it looks like the sock is alarmed.
But that is unimportant right now. There are bigger fish to fry, or trees to fell. Really more of the latter, we’ve worked so far inland that fish are just a rumor and a memory. Which I wish the argyle was, but what else to I have to wear?
We are running low of supplies, but I still have my trusty axe and it seems there are trees to fell as far as the eye can see.
All I can do now is swing the axe, then step to the next tree. I’m in a kind of fugue state where all I can see are trees that need felling, and the sharp axe in my hand to swing.
And the argyle socks that keep screaming at me.
I’ve left the rest of the crew behind somewhere. The are trimming branches and stripping bark, getting the trees ready to be hauled to the river, to raft down to the millpond. A pond with fish. Fish that might be eaten.
And I can finally put the axe down and lose the socks.