A couple of decades ago I met a hugely inspirational character. As I stared out of my window gazing at the streaks of white fluffy clouds splattered against the pastel blue sky, he appeared from nowhere. He lowered himself into my windowsill, his face tightly pressed against the pane, lips curled into a grin. A little cheeky perhaps but he seemed harmless and when he appeared again the next day I waved back.
He began to visit each lunchtime and confided that his name was Sir Incalot. Our friendship blossomed and he started visiting me in the shower room as I washed my hair. He’d sidle up to me, that slightly beady-eyed expression on his face and we began to develop a connection. He taught me how to wrap silk, weave, and even how to bind an object tightly. His knowledge and expertise in the art form was second to none. Not only that but he would appear as if from nowhere, skulking, and jumping with the precision of a Samurai warrior.
Over time I became tangled in his web and knew I must break the ties.
I started to wash my hair alone, making sure to close all the windows and draw the curtains tightly. One afternoon as I pulled the curtain back Sir Incalot was gazing in the window, his eyes narrowed and jaw quivering. It seemed he was perhaps reeling from some great existential crisis. I ran to the parlour where he would not think to look. When I later returned to the shower room, Sir Incalot had spelled out words on the wall, clear as day which simply read, Must Fly.
The next day I searched high and low for Sir Incalot and called his name for hours. The truth only sank in when I realized his little luggage set and 4 pairs of socks were all gone, with only one tiny blue sock remaining….
I later heard he fled to Spain to open a cocktail bar. I hear all those arms and legs came in handy for mixing cocktails.
Occasionally I wonder about my Incy and hope he has found a new sock. I would hate to think of him wandering around with one chilly little foot.