My shoes were wet, my stripey grey and pink socks were wet, my woolly tights were wet, the bottoms of my jeans were wet, and my feet were wet. The cold wetness was gradually climbing kneewards, and this despite the four Euro pseudo-Burberry umbrella I'd picked up from a hawker in the Gran Via.

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I'd been for a walk around the centre of Madrid, unsuccessfully - but perhaps not surprisingly since it was late evening - looking for an open museum so I could kill a few hours between flights (from Rome and to Montevideo), and now I was back at Terminal Four.

I had checked my luggage in earlier in the day, so there was no way I could fish dry socks out of my case. The prospect of an eleven and a half hour flight on a cold plane was not pleasant. Ah well, I would just have to buy a new pair.

In 'Fashion and Fun' in the departure lounge, amongst the ski socks, roller blading socks, and below-the-ankle-socks, I found a warm but not too chunky cabled pair. 'Smartwool', the label read. A ripoff at eighteen Euro. Not for the first time in my week away, I rationalised: my Montevideo-Madrid return flight was bought with airmiles, therefore it was free, therefore surely it was justified to spend a ridiculous amount to keep my feet warm and ensure a less miserable trip.

Off I went with my purchase to the Ladies' to swop wet for dry. In the cubicle it occurred to me that my shoes were still soaking, so the socks wouldn't stay dry long ... unless ... no, I could hardly walk onto the plane shoes in hand ...

Hang on a sec - yes! Brilliant! Wearing my new Smartwools under my damp jeans, and clutching wet tights, socks and shoes, I went to an automatic hand-drier near the sinks. I found my plan only worked if I actually rubbed my hands together, so I put the socks, then the ends of the tights, onto my hands like gloves. The socks looked revolting, stained brown from the dye off the wet shoes, and I got some strange looks from passing hand-washers. My attempts to dry my shoes were less successful: the warm rush of air did little to improve the state of the sodden leather, but at least they weren't dripping.

So now I had two pairs of dry socks and one of tights. Hmm ... if the new socks got wet from the still damp shoes, I'd have to exchange them for the muddy-looking stripey ones on the plane - not a pleasant experience for my neighbour ... aha! Brainwave! Back into the same toilet cubicle (thank goodness - I discovered I'd left my passport and boarding pass sitting on top of the toilet roll holder during the last sock-changing session). A quick change, this time with stained stripes under the less offensive uniformly brown tights ... oh no, I was still left with the problem of having to change in the poky aeroplane toilet if this lot got wet ... never mind, I couldn't think of another plan.

I sat in the departure lounge in my socks and only put on the still damp shoes for the dash onto the plane. The old socks and tights on my feet were still dry when I settled into my seat, and the five-star super-luxury brand-new eighteen Euro 80% pure merino low tumble dry socks - unused - were in my bag.

As I quickly removed my shoes the steward came down the aisle with a tray piled high with a mountain of dark blue woolly bundles.

'Socks, Señora?'