The good socks stayed in the bag.

I packed the swimwear, checked the booking and left the spare socks on the chair. They seemed like something a more cautious person would bring. At the first slushy crossing, I began to admire that person.

The boots were fine for the weather I had imagined. The weather outside my building was wetter and had collected itself beside the curb.

By the time I arrived, the most interesting part of the afternoon was the possibility of taking my shoes off. This had not appeared in my original plan.

I gave the way home some thought.

Inside, I asked where wet footwear belonged and kept my things out of the walking route. I enjoyed the visit. Then I remembered that the boots were waiting to resume our relationship.

I had left enough time to change and get ready properly. What I had not brought was the dry pair of socks sitting on my chair at home, looking increasingly like a very good idea.

On the journey back I planned a much smaller packing list than the ambitious one I usually forgot. One bag for damp things. One dry layer where I could find it. Footwear suited to the route I was actually taking.

The next trip began at the front door.

I checked the conditions before leaving and chose the more sensible boots. The socks went into the bag first, in a separate dry pocket.

A friend asked whether I was preparing for an expedition. I told him I was preparing to cross a street in February. He looked outside and accepted the distinction.

When I returned that evening, the spare socks were still dry. I had not needed them. I put them back in the drawer without feeling cheated.

The boots went into the tray by the door. For once, the end of the afternoon felt as well considered as the beginning.