Batakliev's Bloc

Late afternoon in the Paris underground. I'm on my way to the Tim Burton exhibition at Cinémathèque Française. Squeezed next to me is a charming middle-aged brunette with a frilly black hat on. Sprawled opposite me is an overweight old man with curly grey hair and inquisitive eyes. Both frilly hat and I are staring at our iPhones. I am playing with my Instagram . She is texting. From deep under the heavy blanket of my mobile swoon, I become aware of a heavy, overweight stare. "No more lonelnéss." states the old man, emphasising the last syllable. His eyes are targeting my iPhone. I smile politely continuing my quest for the right filter. "No time to think". Frilly hat's lips curve slightly into a sarcastic smile, her eyes still glued to the magical machine. "No more dreams", the old man's monotonous recital carries on. A pause. Then he looks at me questioningly. "What is your professíon?" Heavy emphasis on the last syllable.

Every morning I get amazed at the number of single socks I own. Why do they refuse to pair up? Emancipation? Bad ownership? Left-wing/right-wing polarity? Single-mindedness? "Poor synthetic souls", sock-centrists would sigh. "Stuck where the sun don't shine, severed from their other halves, disowned, derelict, dysfunctional. If I were a mo(u)rning person, I would shed a tear for every single specimen. But instead, morning after morning I slip into the wrong sock, forcefully marrying incompatible members of the hosiery family. Together they need to function as a team. Yet, in their basted hearts they remain single. Single socks. Getting off on the wrong foot with their owner. Feigning toe holes. Hoping to be ditched during doomed attempts at darning.