imagine being mòrag and wearing socks

She pulls them on with the utmost care; each cuff must match in height and stretch, and even before they are applied, she must cuff up her pants with equal precision.

Why not put the socks on before the pants? Because that's not methodical, because then the socks get lost in the pants, and she's got to fit them into her boots anyway, so she just goes in stages, layer by layer, with posture as unbent as possible all the time.

Brighid finds herself watching, fascinated. Of course, she herself has never worn any such garment in her life. She's not sure if the cheap (well, more utilitarian), sturdy formulation of cotton imported from who-knows-where wouldn't just burn to cinders anyway. If they were domestic housewives, maybe she'd be put up to the ironing, though.

Imagine having such an admirable, unflappable, wholly distinguished picture of unconventional womanhood - not even femininity, because why should it have to be? It shouldn't, of course.

Imagine being Mòrag. Imagine wearing those silly red and black and white polka-dotted socks.