Socks.

 

Before your earliest memories,  all there was was warmth and
darkness. Not the scary dark of night but a warm darkness laying on grass with your eyes closed as the sun beats down. Familiar muffled distant noises reassure you. Your body curled up, wrapped in the warmth that envelopes you. As you move, the warmth hugs you tight yet protective and gentle…this is safe, this is home.

The noise changes. It’s louder, harsh and no longer familiar. Your head suddenly feels the shock of cold air and your world has become bright and loud. No longer warm and unable to focus or understand why you have been ripped from the safe and comfort of you home to this strange new world you are ill-equipped to deal with …you suck in as much air as your body can take because you need to scream…

But all I do is yawn and scratch and jab at my phone like a chimp, frantically trying to turn off the noise of that fucking alarm.

I looking down at my cold feet, thinking dimly “Am I too young for slippers?” I scan the floor for my socks. I find only one, I pick it up and put it on my hand…

I know it’s a cliche and I know everyone is aware of this unusual phenomenon of the one disappearing sock. But we always blame the usual suspects –  it’s probably the washing machine or the tumble dryer that has eaten them, like the sock-hating Hannibal Lecters they are…

“An  engineer once tried to test me. I ate his blue striped ankle socks with some Persil, washed down with a nice fabric softener.”

Or you may put its disappearance down to an accident. Maybe it lost its footing and fell down the back of the drawer or laundry basket, laying undiscovered until it’s dusty remains are found years later (at least you’ll be able to grieve now). Putting aside the more fanciful and strange explanations i.e. :

A place between your bed the sock drawer and wardrobe that some people call the bedroom triangle where socks randomly disappear.

Alien abduction : socks are beamed aboard a mother ship and probed then returned in an odd place with more than the one required hole. But before believing this, please take into account the whereabouts of you pet and it’s alibi.

Mystic forces from beyond the grave trying to contact us through the medium of hosiery
(I’m thinking  this one is pretty unlikely)

Maybe a sign fromm God like that talking burning bush that Moses saw … although controversial and dangerous, Jezebel and her flaming muff was the best ventriloquist act that Egypt’s Got Talent has ever seen, but still she got knocked out by a dog in the final.

I myself believe in a more down to earth and logical conclusion. After years of watching regional detective shows like Inspector Morse, Taggart, The Sweeney and some from the US like Cannon and The Rockford Files and my all-time favourite,  Columbo, I know the first place to look is close to home because 9 times out of 10 the victim knows the perpetrator.

You can rule out yourself for lack of motive. Unless it’s a wank sock you have buried in a shallow grave to hide your disgusting sock rape guilt… all because of one drunken night and one low-cut sport sock’s inability to say no.

In Shari Lewis’s sock puppet Lamb Chop’s autobiography, Miss Chop goes in to great harrowing detail about the drink and the drugs and how she was used and abused as a wank sock. Tragic.

 
Once you have ruled out people with no motive or opportunity you’re left with one key suspect – the other sock! If a wife or husband disappears under suspicious circumstances the first person they look at is their partner. They have opportunity and motives you may know nothing about. The evidence in itself can be compelling –  a bloody glove or point blank shots fired into a bathroom door. The obvious explanation is usually the right one. If a man is found beaten to death with golf clubs he bought for his sports-hating wife as 50th wedding anniversary present, you don’t automatically assume suicide.

 

So there you have it…the sock did it all along. “And I would have gotten away with it, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids” I say,  making the sock talk.

I pull the sock off my hand and snap out of my day dream, picking up some jogging pants that were laying in a puddle at my feet (They live in hope that it will be today that I actually go jogging…or maybe as they are very old tatty and  broken ones, the most they hope for is that I put on underwear).

I stand making a sound somewhat like Chewbacca and possibly pulling his sex face. I throw the sock into the laundry basket,  not realising I’ve missed and it’s gone down the back. I make my way down stairs towards the kitchen in search of tea and maybe toast, like Indiana Jones in his nursing home adventures,  The Temple of Spoons I think as I drift into another day dream.

As I do so my the leg of my jogging pants gives birth to a sock…

 

 

indi

 
Christmas is coming – visit our Etsy shop get your orders in, so you are not thwarted by the fucking postal strike!

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