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It is a singularly uncomfortable and disturbing experience to have absolutely no idea where it is your trousers have got to.
Especially when you've just had a horrible row, either with the trousers or with someone else, within earshot of the trousers, as you never know if they've gone off and are plotting against you, to catch you unaware, or going to just go off and sulk, perhaps nick your credit card and go off on a shopping spree, just to annoy you.
So you look about for a bit, perhaps becoming more and more slightly agitated, knowing full well that they ('they' being the Authorities) frown on non-trousered individuals on the tube, which you need to make your way to if you're not going to be late for whatever it is at the other end of the tube, and you have only black socks left in the clean drawer (or clean pile on the floor, whichever way you deem it fit to categorise/file your clothing), so it's not an option to wear a pair of shorts, unless you want to look like a tourist again, what with your flowered shirt, rather unsightly (let's admit it) legs that end in a pair of black socks, capped by trainers, and no one wants that, really, especially not once you find yourself sucked bodily into a throng of German tourists who insist on trying out who has the most annoyingly high-pitched falsetto laugh whilst rolling on one another and half the other people passing by and you wind up spending the day staring at shop windows and the pillars on the houses in Battersea, but you still fail to turn up any hint of the trousers, and you just about resign yourself to spending the day indoors.
Which is when you remember trying to trade them for a McDonald's cheeseburger the previous evening, and you do do wind up falling in with the crowd of German tourists.
disclaimer:
We take no responsibility for the improper use of red, nor do we condone losing your trousers just to strike up conversations on the tube. Though it's a good enough idea, that is.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. a dozen red roses. err... star signs.