There had been signs that it was in its way, the number of socks that I couldn’t match into pairs seemed to be increasing once again but now the weather has turned and the nights are drawing in its only going to get worse. I can get the the need for wearing socks under boots but why don’t females buy their own ? What’s so special about mine that those in the house constantly raid my sock drawer when they want a pair to put under their wellies etc and why, if they must take mine, can’t they take a matching pair ? How difficult can it be to take two that are even the same colour or have the same pattern ? Is there some unwritten fashion rule that females must wear odd socks that belong to somebody else ?
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Then all of your sock related woes will be a thing of the past....
I doubt there is any man alive that hasn't had sock trauma in the past.
Those bearded celibate barefooted monks truly have special power.
I’m sure you know the way mums keep kids glove together by running a thread from each glove through the child’s sleeves ?
Why not do the same for socks. Up each trouser leg and across the crotch. The most brilliant ideas are often the most simple.
Seriously?
My socks are creased to buggery.
"That's yours", said the lovely lady with more than a hint on confidence.
"Of course it's not mine", I said rolling up my trouser legs to prove a point, "Mine are both here".
"That's yours, I'm telling you. You've got another one at home just like it". Adding thoughtfully, "You'd best pick it up and bring it home".
"I'm not picking up a strange sock", I responded. "I don't know what manky foot that's been on. And besides, I might be depriving a tramp of a good find"
"It's been on your manky foot", stated the self-appointed expert in masculine hosiery. "Its mate is in our linen basket".
A state of mild bickering continued for a few minutes before she finally persuaded me to pick up the grotesque item. When we arrived home, she bounded up the stairs with an enthusiasm rarely seen since our early twenties. She disappeared into the bathroom, emerging a few seconds later with a wide grin and a sock that looked exactly like the one I'd just fetched home. It was then that she had a sudden attack of the Angela Lansburys. "Last night", said informed me "you went to bed drunk. You pulled off your jeans without taking your socks off properly. One fell off on the floor. The other must have got stuck up your trouser leg. This morning you put new socks on, but the same jeans as yesterday - with one one sock still stuck up the leg. You sat around on Charlton Life all morning so there was nothing to dislodge it. Nothing, that is, until you stretched your leg to step over the style and that's when it fell out".
And that I believe is the answer to where the missing socks go. They are deposited around the countryside by hungover drunkards, unaware that their lazy disrobing habits are the single biggest cause of a sock-pollution epidemic. With thanks the the great sock detective of south Essex.
I hope it was Mrs Ltgtr’s photo you were looking at and not mine...
Having grilled my then partner and satisfied that it wasn’t her, I could find no explanation.
Until the following spring when I was out in the back garden turning over the soil and discovered them buried in various places throughout.
The dog, obviously not satisfied that the detergent we used was doing it’s job, took it upon herself to dispose of the odious offenders and presumably do her and us all a big favour!