The maid waylaid him at the bottom of the stair with a convoluted complaint about the cook's unwarranted behaviour. His sister rang to suggest that he should wait until the afternoon to travel with her and the children. Then the neighbour rapped at the window to exuberate with gaiety at the weather's spring sparkle. He knew a plot when he saw it.

No subtle craft, no silken tentacles would ensnare him that morning. He had traded office duties to purchase early freedom for the weekend. Essential, personal possessions had been keeping vigil in a bag since last evening. Nothing would prevent him from occupying the seat he had reserved on the fast train to the country.

He saw the first shoe drive across the street the instant he stepped out the door. It wasn't a car masquerading as a shoe, but a well-sewn, leather-constructed mobile object of automobile size and character with a sole, a toe, stitching, and most unreasonably, a tangle of laces for a motor. Not only was someone placidly driving a shoe, but the trees shading the pavement had the undeniable look of closet racks hung with leaves, and the lamp-posts were - yes, they were - long, thin, muslin shirts with cuffed sleeves. He made no attempt to turn around, but groped behind him to unlatch the door and back into his house. He knew that the trouble was deepening when the doorknob in his hand was not the familiar brass round, but a large button. With an unannounced departure, his mind had gone missing in a maelstrom; yet even that would not stop him catching his train.

 

 

Once in his salon, he raged. Rather than chairs, he saw great, stiff socks. The sofa and pillows had been replaced by a large lady's bra of impressive cup-size. The side tables were posh alligator handbags; the carpets seemed to be patterned jumpers and loose cardigans; the lamps bunched at their tops like baggy knickers. Silk stockings hung as mirrors on the wall, above a fireplace framed in a suspender belt. His overnight case was no more than an elaborately folded kerchief with a knot for a handle. It would have to do in this pinch.

Bundle in arms, he hailed a taxi-boot. This particular piece of industrial footwear was polished black, and had an exceedingly narrow turning circle. Inside, the musty snap of hide was powerful. He turned down a leather side-flap to let in some air.

"The station please." He would be better damned than prompted to mention any incongruity to this driver, who looked a surly cur in any case. The traffic was a fetishist's riot. Sleek Latin numbers revved next to staid wingtips; sensible square-heelers put-putted past classic-chassis pumps; barely respectable trainers burped out grimy exhaust. A stunning stiletto heel drew passing interest, while the clement day had sprung from the garage a loose sandal or two. "Just my luck," he thought while chafing in the jam. A red, wellington bus had sandwiched a milk-delivery clog between itself and a telephone clothes-post. "Ridiculous," he fumed. He reached for his pocket, but his trousers were moving. Every thread about his body had a life of its own. This was no time to risk putting his hands where they might not be recoverable. The driver's garments were writhing around on the front seat; but the fellow wasn't talking. The traffic lights dangled earrings; how was one to read the signals? Worse, the road was paved with neckties, polka-dotted on the high street, paisley around the corner. He closed his eyes.

 

 

"That's it mate."

"Keep the change". The station loomed over him at last. The central clock was a horsehair wig with collar-stays to mark the hour. He had just enough time. He found his quay, shot a cursory glance at the train and gave it up. The wagons were puff-pastry shells beaded end to end. The engine looked a bin of popped corn with greasy, salted butter pooling beneath on the cinders. Were he to see the bar car he knew that he would vomit. He sat upon a derby hat that did for a bench. Candy-icing rails snaked along the siding out into the gloom. The cross-ties were bread logs.