533: Socks and Squirrels (not together)

Why don't socks have labels on them? Either they don't need them, in which case maybe most other clothes don't either. Or they do need them but tradition dictates that socks be the one item of clothing sans label. The explanation for the presence of labels is that they display the size of the clothing and any special washing instructions. Socks have the size on the packaging they come in (usually a broad range of shoe sizes, e.g. 6-9) and don't usually require any special washing instructions. In fact most clothes have the size on the packaging, tags or hangers, and don't require any special washing instructions. I demand consistency: either labels must be installed on all socks immediately, or no further item of clothing should be manufactured with labels (unless there is some massively urgent and important washing instructions, e.g. this jumper dissolves in water).

So anyway, yesterday I presented the world with some nonsense about watching wrestling squirrels in a tree outside my flat. In the process of making that up I entirely forgot I have an actual true story about a squirrel outside my flat; one of such baffling boggling baffly-boggle that it will pop off your little cotton socks. I'm not one to make hubristic unrealistic claims, and I'm not going to say this story will change your life, but there is a very real chance this story might change your life. Not will; might, you understand?

I left the house, walked through the gate and turned left to walk down the street. As I started moving down the pavement I noticed a squirrel on the wall running alongside me about a foot to my left and three feet in front. When it got to the neighbours gate it leaped atop the gate post, a stone orb, and jumped from one to the other, remaining about three feet in front of me. It carried on leading the way, leaping from gate post to gate post as we walked down the street together. Eventually I approached a tree to my right, and so did little Mr. Nutkin. He hopped up onto another gatepost and flung himself across the pavement, landing on the trunk of the tree about six or seven feet from the ground, then pegged it upwards into the bare branches. To the best of my recollection this is the first significant jumping I've seen a squirrel indulge in, and the longest time I've ever spent in the presence of any lovable wild rodent. We still write each other on occasion; birthdays and so forth.