Let's talk about socks

We were at a wedding this past weekend - one of K's cousins, who lives just outside London Village, Englandshire.
Everything was going smoothly. I got a half day at work to avoid rushed packing.
I had been deliberating for the whole previous fortnight as to whether or not I'd take my kilt, which I finally decided I would.
We were at the airport in plenty time, the flight was fine and fairly smooth (though neither of us were impressed with the offer of a "Delicious" crayfish Salad)

Arrived at terminal five with minimal delay, walked down the nearby stairs, picked up our bags, walked outside and onto the "Hoppa" bus to our hotel pretty much as smooth and quickly as it took to type this sentence out.

15 before we were getting picked up, I was getting dressed in my finery. It was only then that I discovered that the one piece of my kilt regalia i was missing was my nice big woollen socks.

cue a nice big arguement (why is it that the more futile and pointless arguing is, the more heated and emotional it sems to get) and wondering what I could wear.
Which is more important - that I turn up at all, or that I'm smartly dressed.

In the end the least ridiculous compromise (after definitely ruling out just wearing normal sized black socks) I ended up in my dress shirt, jeans, and my brogues with the ridiculously long laces tied round the underneath, like I used to do with my football boots at school.

Still - the ceremony was good - packed to the rafters and obviously important to the happy couple; the reception was at the side of a large reservoir with Winsdor castle in the sunset hued distance; the speeches were long, but engaging and entertaining, and the band ( The Common Moral Cause which the groom and the brides brother are part of) were really rather good.

But I couldn't help thinking about my socks