If you’ve come here looking for inspiration please look away now. In fact, please leave the room and close the door behind you because this is most definitely not ‘that’ kind of post. This is one of those ‘why can I not sort this out’ posts that forces you to write about it before your head explodes.
Socks, in particular odd socks, are the proverbial bane of my life.
Not unusually for a family of five, we have loads of socks. They get everywhere and, it would appear, I am apparently incapable of putting two socks in a washing machine and pulling two socks out after they’ve been pummelled and spun.
This is my odd sock basket:
Yes, such is the magnitude of the problem, I need an entire basket to house it. Where do they go? I wholeheartedly believe in the Borrowers and have no problem with them inhabiting the space between the skirting and the wall, but I really wish they’d just take pairs and be done with it.
This is the contents of my sock basket, see the little buggers mocking me in their solitude?:
At the last count, there were 71 of the little blighters in there and that doesn’t include the 7 that I put out of their misery. Desolate in my sock-induced despair, I did what most people do, I tried to share my problem, letting it all out one day to a friend I’d hoped would sympathise. She was aghast, claimed she’d never heard of such a phenomenon and laughed at my pain.
Two weeks later, she announced that she’d “done a Paula”. She’d lost a sock… one, solitary sock.
It’s a start….welcome to my world…