Andy Richardson: Pat on the back for the kind sock maker

"There's a lady in reception who'd like to see you. Is that okay?"

That was it. There was nothing else. No clues as to who it might be. No hint of what I might have done.

My mind swirled.

Was it Wife Number One, come to ask for the return of her horse saddle rack? She'd left it behind in a flurry of packed bags.

Or was it Wife Number Two – lord knows what she might have asked for. Let's draw a veil, offer a diplomatic silence and think of happier things.

My inner monologue continued to race, like Lewis Hamilton at Interlagos.

Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps it was another once-friendly lady tracing an earring clasp that had mysteriously fallen down the back of the sofa or an ingénue seeking the return of a Jon Hopkins CD that'd been left in the kitchen.

Doom settled on my shoulders. The words 'a lady would like to see you' bring me the same level of dread that Philip Green feels when the pensions office calls.

Lady. See. Me. Equals. Shivers. Down. My. Spine.

I'll get my coat.

It's funny how wrong we can be. The lady in question was smartly dressed. Pat, from Telford, was charm itself. My fears that Glenn Close was waiting to talk about Fatal Attraction, or Meg Ryan was offering lessons in how to deal with men like Michael Parkinson were allayed.

Pat was fabulous. Pat was A+++. Pat was *****.

"You wrote about socks, didn't you?" she said, politely.

My mind scanned a Rolodex of memories.

"I'm not sure," I demurred, as synapses reflected on the 5,000-words-a-day that emanate from Desk Con One. That's about 150,000 words this year – or two novels' worth. Even an autist doesn't remember that many.

"You did," she said, displaying a grasp of my work far more impressive than my own. Assertive, polite and well-dressed: Pat was a woman on a mission.

While I fiddled with my fingernails and wondered what offence an article about socks might have caused, Pat rummaged in her handbag.

"I thought you might be tall," she said. "So I've knitted you a large pair."

She produced from her handbag a beautiful pair of hand-knitted socks. Sober in colour, elegant in design and, I have no doubt, the warmest thing that will happen to my toes this winter, they were tasteful, dignified and exquisite.

"Here you are," she said, handing them to me. "You wrote a column saying how difficult it had been to buy socks, so I took pity on you and knitted you a pair."

Pat. You are my guardian angel, my fairy godmother, my milkwoman of human kindness, a beatified soul.

"Thank you," I said.

"Well, I read all of your columns and your food reviews. I thought you might like them."

I did and I do.

Back in the office, I showed the socks to Desk Con Two colleague, Mark. Mark is brilliant. He dresses like Tom Hiddleston, drives a Rolls Royce at weekends and feasts on seven bags of scratchings per day. The word 'character' doesn't come close. He is as unique as Halley's Comet, as exclusive and particular as Sir Roger Moore.

I showed him the socks. He showed me what he'd received that morning.

"Someone's had their purse stolen," he said, shaking a letter at me.

"He wants to know what I can do about it?"

I wondered whether we might send the theft victim my socks, but, selfishly, decided against it.

Mark thought I ought to buy Pat a dinner and for reasons that remain unclear, suggested spaghetti.

"I bought some spaghetti seeds the other day," he said. The conversation flipped like Bryony Page on a trampoline.

"What?"

"I bought some spaghetti seeds."

Debbie, who'd overheard, shook her head. "Spaghetti is made from pasta, Mark. It's egg and flour. It doesn't grow in the ground."

Mark looked confused. "Isn't spaghetti a vegetable?" The ghost of Jade Goody laughed a thousand laughs.

"Yes, and Essex is a country."

Now, before allotment holders of the world unite and send us packets of Unwins Squash Spaghetti Seeds, we're pretty sure Mark didn't know what he was talking about. Not without reason is Mark nicknamed Mr Microwave.

Incidentally, he's stopped eating scratchings this week, which is a cause for concern.

"I've gone healthy," he declared. "I'm on salt'n'vinegar Ryvita. I think I'm annoying Toby when I eat them because they're too noisy."

Ryvita Rage, who'd have thought it? He'll be on Marmite rice cakes next week, if only to eat softer food and not annoy Toby.

My socks fitted like a dream. And they gave me an idea. Next week, I'm going to write a column about supercars. And, if all things go to plan, 10 months from now a reader just like Pat will arrive with the keys to a spanking new Jaguar.

I'll do wheelspins while wearing the coolest bespoke socks in Christendom.

Then I'll call up Pat and ask her if she'd like to go for dinner.