The tale below is a true story, except for changed names and the last three paragraphs.

‘Nice socks, Gary!’

It was a thump right over his heart. He didn’t need to, but Gary looked down. Black shirt, black dinner-suit trousers, and beneath them, socks in horizontal stripes of black and a vivid green.

‘Aren’t they just?’ he could have said coolly, taking his regulation black socks out of his bag. If his black socks had been in his bag. But they weren’t. That was why he’d kept having the feeling, all afternoon, that he’d forgotten something. Oh God. He would have realised anyway, as soon as he went to put on his black dress shoes.

Another thump – where were those shoes? Two seconds of panic, until he found them under the chair, just where he’d put them five minutes earlier. He put them on. They were quite low around the foot. And the trousers were on the short side. If he stood perfectly upright and still, the socks couldn’t be seen. But what about moving around, what about sitting down?

He sat down. Several inches of green stripes appeared, and no amount of tugging at the trouser legs made the slightest difference.

‘What am I going to do? Pauline’ll kill me!’ Pauline was the choir manager, with responsibility for enforcing the dress code. Prescribed concert dress for tonight was all black. And Pauline discharged her responsibilities rigorously and enthusiastically.

‘No-one’ll notice,’ said a fellow tenor, Don. But he didn’t look convinced.

‘They will! Anyway, Pauline will. And I’m right in the front row.’ Everyone’s on-stage position was assigned, and not lightly changed. And certainly only with Pauline’s agreement.

‘I’ll swap if you like,’ Don kindly offered. He was in the second row, but that didn’t guarantee invisibility. The ranks were quite widely spaced and highly raked one above the other.

‘That’s really kind, Don, but I couldn’t let you do that.’ Don’s relief was palpable.

‘I don’t suppose anyone has a spare pair of black socks?’ Gary said, with a light laugh, not fooling anyone with his affected nonchalance. All round the room, men in various states of undress shook their heads, thanking their stars that it was not their problem.

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Derek. ‘Bloody hell, Gary! No way you’ll be allowed on in them!’

Could Pauline really take such drastic action? Never mind the humiliation; it would be a bitter disappointment after two months of intensive rehearsal, including last night’s 200 mile trek to and from the orchestra’s rehearsal hall, and this afternoon’s final run-through, when the choir had heard the fantastic bunch of soloists for the first time.

‘You’ll be OK,’ ventured Ralph.

‘No, I won’t. I’ll be so self-conscious I won’t be able to concentrate on the music. And what if one of the critics notices? They might mention it in their review. Imagine! “The only jarring note in last night’s otherwise sublime performance…”.

It was twenty to seven. They had to go on at ten past. Possibly he could get to the supermarket, possibly they sold black socks, or anything black that he could wrap around those stripes. But it might be very busy; there could be long queues at the check-out. He had to do something. What about the Town Hall staff? He went out of the dressing room into the corridors where the concert-goers were milling about, and there was the Chief Steward in his customary dinner-suit, but also wearing his customary air of self importance. Any thought of approaching him evaporated.

Perhaps Gary would run into someone he knew, and with a lot of luck they’d be wearing black socks. He threaded his way through the crowd, looking for a familiar face. Meanwhile time was running out. He looked in the bar. Right in front of him was a man sitting alone, leafing through the programme. Socks apparently black. There was nothing else for it.

‘Excuse me, I’ve got a rather unusual request. I’m in the choir, and I can’t go on without black socks – I’ve forgotten mine.’ He showed off his stripes. ‘So I wonder if you’d be so kind as to swap socks with me until after the performance? All in the cause of art!’

‘These are grey, actually.’

‘Oh. But very dark grey. That would be OK. A lot better than these, you see!’ The man couldn’t even manage a smile. Gary felt his discomfort.

‘You’d rather I asked someone else, I expect.’

‘Yes, I would, actually.’

‘OK! Thanks anyway…’.

Just across the bar was another chap on his own, evidently taking an interest. Gary sat down beside him. He couldn’t see the socks as the man was wearing some kind of boots.

‘I expect you heard? – I’m looking for someone who’ll swap socks. Perhaps you could help?’

A smile, at least. Then the man pulled up his trouser leg.

‘They’re navy.’

‘But almost black. They’d be great. Can I persuade you to be my saviour? For art’s sake?’

‘Yes, all right.’

‘Really? Oh, brilliant.’ Gary immediately started removing his shoes and the man followed suit. He waved away Gary’s green striped socks.

‘You hold on to them. I’ll just go without.’

‘Are you sure? OK. I’ll meet you afterwards to return yours – where?’

The rear foyer was decided upon.

‘I wonder what other strange requests I’ll get tonight?’ mused the concertgoer. With further thanks and a triumphant grin towards his first target, Gary rushed off.

In the passage there was Derek, talking to Pauline. He called Gary over and made as if to draw Pauline’s attention to the sock issue, but thinking better of it he made instead some innocuous remark. As Pauline happened to turn to speak to someone else, Gary smugly drew Derek’s attention to his ankles and his almost blameless socks.

‘Where did you get them?’

Gary’s explanation made Derek gasp with incredulity. He beckoned to another of the singers.

‘Have you heard this, Peter?’

It was time to go on. Lines of singers formed in the backstage corridor. One of the basses called across,

‘Good job it wasn’t your trousers, Gary!’

Clearly news of his adventure had spread like wildfire.

They filed into the hall. With demure ankles Gary could give all his attention to the music, as required.

After the conductor laid down his baton and the clapping erupted, Gary took off his glasses and mopped his brow. It was a bit of a shock to realise that he was mopping it, not with his hanky, but with the stripy socks that he’d stuffed in his trouser pocket. Still, it didn’t matter now. He put them inside his music folder and bathed in the waves of applause.

Outside the hall, he quickly changed socks and ran down to the foyer. There was his friend for life, a man who would never again listen to the St Matthew Passion without feeling a chill around his ankles. Gary handed over the socks.

‘Many thanks again. And thanks for coming to the concert. I hope you enjoyed it?’

‘Yes, wonderful. Goodnight, then.’

Several days later a collection of reviews was emailed round by the choir secretary. They were all very complimentary, but one stood out.

“Saturday’s performance of Bach’s masterwork engaged our emotions intensely, and in my case not only my emotions, as I was able to take part in it, in a very small way…”.

Luckily the reviewer didn’t include in his account the detail of his socks being navy; so Pauline, reading the review with pursed lips and furrowed brow, couldn’t put her finger on any actual cause for complaint.