By seven the hearth already had a line. Wool socks sat along the fender in a polite row, each left waiting to greet its right before taking exactly one foot. The keeper of the grate held a pair of wooden tongs and would not let two unmatched socks sit down at once.
We asked at the kiosk by the square. "I thought they were cold," said the woman who sells cocoa. "They are only being careful. A left that rushes leaves its right still folding, and then the whole morning feels a little lopsided."
A notice appeared on the mantel in careful soot print. Pairing hour runs from first spark to first tea. Slippers may nod, but they do not skip the queue. Socks that are still deciding should not be hurried.