Friday, 17 March 2017

Migrating socks

I think I peaked too early. Wheatear on the 11th March, basically the first day I had been out looking for migrants. Normally I would spend far longer trawling the Flats, and in doing so would likely get a Shelduck early morning, perhaps a Sand Martin, occasionally even a Little Ringed Plover. As it was I scored the only migrant that really gets my juices flowing and so having seen one on Saturday I have only ventured out once in the intervening six days. Poor, and I am a bit sad about it actually, especially as the weather has been exceptionally spring-like. I don’t think I’ve missed anything other than Blackcap, but nonetheless.

That said there has been progress in other areas. Like socks. There is constant problem in Chateau L around a lack of socks, especially at that crucial time of getting dressed in the morning when they just disappear. The problem is mostly that at some point between the washing bin and the washing machine that single socks migrate. I am very careful about searching for stragglers and vagrants, but other members of the household are not as diligent. As such we have an immense collection of odd socks. The other day, having run out of a fresh pair of matching socks for the umpteenth time I cracked and bought six more pairs online. Then I tackled the odd sock bag. Surely everyone would proceed in this order, no?

Anyway, I laid them all out in colours on the bed and thus successfully matched about 20 pairs, which is patently ridiculous. I blame the children. Then I emptied the washing bin of all socks of any colour and washed them as a mixed load. I’ve not lost my touch. A day later I thus matched a further 25 pairs, but we still have around fifty odd socks. I am tempted to throw them all out, but then all of their brethren would magically appear from under children’s beds, in children’s beds, and no doubt a host of other places I would never have considered, and we would have another insurmountable problem. Thus we cling on to them in the forlorn hope that one day (in a parallel universe I expect) this number might reduce. It never does of course, it just grows and grows until we all run out again and the bag overflows. Then muggins here gets involved and temporarily stems the tide until frustration and despair set in again.

My new socks have yet to arrive. I don’t actually need them any more as after my recent blitz I can barely close my sock drawer and neither can anyone else in the house. Close their own drawers I mean, I haven’t lined everyone up and made them attempt to close my sock drawer. If I can’t manage it, nobody can. But here’s the thing, the six pairs of socks cost £4. That’s, er, less than 50p per sock. I generally have expensive tastes, but not in socks – there is no point in Chateau L, any decent sock would be the first to abscond. But at 33p a sock (just checked on a calculator) why not just chuck them out when you’re finished wearing them? Less washing, less angst, less time spent chasing errant socks, fewer arguments with slovenly children. More time looking for avian migrants. Win win. Just order in bulk say once a month, where I suspect you could improve on 33p, and have done with it. They might not be very good socks, but when you’re only wearing them for about 12 hours then does it really matter? Worthy of consideration surely.


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