There must be a scientific law which governs socks, specifically.
Each belongs with an identical twin, does it not? Each has a soul mate with which to dance through life. And yet it seems to me that, contrarily, that like socks repel.
A few minutes ago, I sorted through the sock drawer which is supposed to jealously guard the family’s hosiery. I lined up a long parade of about twenty socks.
Each should have had an identical partner: and not one did.
There was a little blue sock, a big black sock, a sock with an orange heel and “Monday” emblazoned on it; and a sock named “Friday” with a purple toe. There was a frilly pink sock and a shocking pink ankle sock.
None of them matched any of the others.
Each sock was a study in individuality, and if I nailed them all to a piece of chipboard I could sell them to the Tate Gallery because really, I feel sure they carry a message for life: they are trying to tell me something.
I am just not quite sure what that something is.
Every day is a new episode in the battle to keep my children’s feet sheathed in wool and cotton. Yet while I usually manage to win the battle and bring these evasive little garments together for one day at least, I have yet to come anywhere close to winning the Sock Wars.
Today I scrabbled as usual, but almost lost the Sock Wars for good.
I had almost completed my sock-to-sock combat for the day: my children were catered for sock-wise; my husband had found some from somewhere; but I could find only one.
Having rooted everywhere it was possible to root, including my husband’s sock drawer, the dog’s basket and the back of the bedroom sofa, I finally ran one to ground. It did fit: but it was suspect in size. A little small.
There is a particularly barbaric version of Cinderella which addresses the business of big feet. It is the original Grimm tale, Grimm by name, and Grimm by nature.
For the purposes of this exercise, we join Cinderella the morning after the ball. Prince Nice-But-Dim has hit on the perfect way to find the petite woman with whom he danced the night before. Not for him, a glance at the stunning face which must have been so memorable as they waltzed across the glittering dance floor.
No, he will find the woman whose foot fits the golden shoe .
I must brush away images of our august British prime minister and his inestimable decision-making powers as I weigh up the effectiveness of this fairytale powerbroker’s methods.
It could be said that what this Prince does not know about women is a lot.
Of course, the majority might line up obediently and have their feet measured in the hope that even if their face doesn’t fit, their feet might.
But there is bound to be that minority who would try by any means, no matter how drastic, to subvert the system.
At the Cinderella residence all is industry as the golden slipper is brought to the household for fitting. The eldest sister scurries upstairs. Out of sight it will be much easier to cram a quart into a pint pot.
But no matter how she pushes and shoves, it is to no avail. The big toe is the sticking point. So her mother offers some helpful, if vitriolic, advice.
I know, she says: just chop off your toe. When you’re a princess you won’t need it, because, you see, you will never have to go anywhere on foot anyway.
I said it was Grimm.
The daughter does exactly as she is told, forces on the golden slipper and hobbles downstairs in some discomfort to claim her prince.
It is a pigeon who eventually sounds the alarm. The Prince has clearly bypassed the fact that she looks completely different, has already put the macabre woman on his horse and is off to the castle with her.
The pigeon sings a little warning song and the Prince looks down and sees blood running out of the shoe. Erk. Back to the house for a rematch.
The recollection of the gory story did not stop me. I took one look at that small sock and pulled it on with all my might: and there it stayed, obedient but scant, as black as the one on my other foot but about half the size.
It remained obedient all the way through the morning, sitting quietly inside a black leather boot, treading the hallowed halls of a monster shopping mall to help Maddie buy a hat.
We arrived home, and soon enough the dog stationed himself next to me with limpid enquiring eyes and triangular ears. What about a walk, then, he intimated with infinite focus. He made a few noises to underline his point.
I got up and put on my coat, got the dog’s lead, and headed for the bank of Wellington boots which live on the shelves by the door.
On went a sturdy pair and off I set, into the forest. Very soon, I became aware that the little sock was developing a mind of its own.
It was like a patient little caterpillar, concertina-ing its way off my feet. I could feel it hotching down, and the unforgiving rubber of the Wellington making its presence deeply unwelcome.
There was nothing for it but to stop, take of the Wellington and re-position the little sock once more. We proceeded on our way: Macaulay gamboled; but I was aware that the sock was slowly journeying southwards once more.
Five times, I had to pause in my usual forest reverie: for there is nothing quite so uncomfortable as a tiny sock forsaking its post in a Wellington boot.
I have learned my lesson. I must find a way of harnessing the power those tiny garments have to fling themselves to disparate parts of our universe. For a Wellington without an adequate sock is a miserable thing for any man.
Time to invent magnetic socks.
Kate Shrewsday 
Kate, I have been ruthlessly cleaning out cupboards this week and having a chuck-away fest. I don’t know what size your garbage bags are in the UK, but ours are huge. I have one full bag of lost-partner-socks.
It’s a mystery.
I should write a thesis, do this thing properly. If it’s happening in SA this thing is really big.
They escape down the outlet pipe of the washing machine and probably end up sunning themselves on the beaches of Tanzania 😀
Oh, to be a tourist on that beach, Bluebee 😀
Great title, and loved the Sock Wars.
A few years ago I started buying multiple pairs of the same type of sock to outsmart those tiny garments. It’s worked for the most part, except some have turned lighter than others from more time in the washing machine. Holding up a more frequently washed with a less frequently washed sock shows that they have morphed into a non-pair. The tiny garments win again!
Curses, foiled! Foxing them will require something akin to espionage, I fear, Zoe. I’m off to dig out two vaguely similar ones to wear today…
Socks. Don’t talk to me about socks…..
With three males who now have similar sized feet I thought I had devised a simple way to overcome the sock sorting. Plain for Cyclo, stripes on toes and heels for Techie and checks for Scout. (Good old M&S) Leaving me for any sort of design that catches my fancy. Each person in our family has a ‘smalls basket’. When a batch of washing has been processed all clean smalls are dumped on the kitchen table with said baskets and boys are asked to sort their stuff.
Why is it then that we have a pile of unpaired socks…? and nearly every morning the boys come down in mis-matched colours? (Personally I think that latter fact is on purpose….)
Every now and then we have sock amnesty and Cyclo reclaims errant socks, often from my drawers. But tthen my feet are sized like an ugly sisters
(My Ma used to say that socks that did that hotching down business inside a shoe or boot were ‘going to sleep.’)
LOL I love that, Pseu.. it is noteable that despite your formidable and logical approach to sock husbandry, the little blighters still evade your grasp. And my feet,too are szed like an ugly sister’s…little socks might be just a bit afraid….
I understand your sister Brit Miss Bea Ferguson was granted patent for washing machine in 1691. With the evolution of the electric washing machine a predator known as the Sock Monster appeared. They hide in machines and eat socks, never two of the same pair of course. The US Environmental Agency and the Protected Species Act prohibit their capture and eradication. I have outwitted them, however. All my socks are black so it doesn’t matter if i lose one sock of a pair. A loner matches another loner.
Ah (nods wisely) the sock monster.I have heard him on occasion in the back of the machine. I suspect our Environmental powers that be ight have a similar attuitude to this steely predator. I will watch out for them. Thank you for the heads up, Carl.
You know, even with just the two of us left in the household, socks still manage to disappear. One of life’s mysteries to be sure.
It only takes two socks for one of them to decide to hide under the sofa, Susan. They are industrious if nothing else 🙂
Ah, the sock “situation”. Be very vary of those who claim all their socks match. It can’t be. It goes against all law, natural and un. From the moment socks are born, they are programmed to go their own ways.
When our girls were little, I fretted, trying to match up pairs, went to all white socks, to no avail. Alas and alack, now there are only two of us, and still, socks don’t match.
Kate, you had me laughing in these early morning hours here at your humorous post (well, except for all the Grimm parts).
And they were very grim, weren’t they, Penny? Glad the socks caused a chuckle. I have resorted to crime this morning and stolen a pair of Phil’s.
there was a tv advert about the desert island for lost socks. i believe it completely
Perhaps you have found our answer, Sidey…
How does this happen? I just lost, mysteriously, one of my favourite pair. I searched every where, even behind the dryer, to no avail. Where do these socks go? And why do they leave their partners behind?
I wish you could see me, Kristine. I am shaking my head with considerable animation. i have no idea.
You don’t think the dogs eat them, do you?
Hi Kate
Sounds familiar. I was matching up socks to put away yesterday, and as always came up with a few odds. The odd sock collection lives in the airing cupboard in our house, so I went there thinking I might be able to match up one or two and reduce the pile. No such luck – added to it instead! Being the numbers man I am, I counted them up, and I can confirm we are currently on seventeen – no idea where the rest are!
Re Cinderella, as you say, the Grimm story gets a bit grim doesn’t it. You’ll never guess what – I much prefer Walt’s version!
Hope all going well with the return to work / school at your house – everyone seems to have survived the first day here. Bring on the weekend, bring on the holidays, bring back Christmas!
And I have been reading about those extensive holiday plans, Miff: you have a veritable chain of enticing vacations planned, and you all deserve every minute 🙂 If it’s any help at all, I’m with my godson on the whole Med thing. Sun, sea, sand and cheese. What more could you want?
You may be overthinking this . . . the Wellingtons swallow them whole, unless you remain on your guard (as you did yesterday) by fending off the boot’s advances and the sock’s retreat. 😉
Loved: “there is nothing quite so uncomfortable as a tiny sock forsaking its post in a Wellington boot.”
Those dastardly wellingtons: you are right Nancy, the simplest explanation is always the best. That’s the last time I leave a little sock to fend for itself against such a formidable adversary.
My college-girl niece saves time by throwing all her socks into the drawer and wearing whatever comes out. Says all the girls do that. Says it looks funky. I tried it a couple of times and it was kind of liberating. And in Austin, it probably qualifies as conservative dress.
It is certainly a style statement, Kathy 🙂 Here we’re all in boots so no one can see whether we’re funky or not.
One day, I must see Austin…
Where do all the odd socks go?
by Shane Ward
Where do all the odds socks go?
It drives me to despair.
No matter how I wash the things
One goes to, who knows where?
Ten socks inside a pillowcase
And all of them are mine.
I pull them out once they are washed
To count them. Yep. There’s nine!
What is it with these wash machines?
I wish that it would stop.
So many socks I’ve lost in there
I could have filled a shop.
And why just socks for heaven sake?
It simply goes too far
I never lose a shirt, or vest,
nor underpants or bra.
Could the thing be eating them?
No. Somehow I think not.
Nor is it some strange payment
Like a laundermat type slot.
I wonder what would happen
If so sad a day will come
That in the wash machine I put
Not two socks – only one?
And if I sit by that machine
And Guard it like a sentry
Would I be surprised to find
The metal barrel empty?
Oh where do all the odd socks go?
I’ll never understand
The only way I’ll keep them all
Is wash the things by hand!
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewPoetry.asp?id=82696
LOL Brilliant, Pseu.
I wonder if even washing them by hand might not keep socks at bay 🙂
Congratulations Kate. You have followed your parents in becoming a Single Socks family.
We have been there for years.
By the way I once knew a student called “Boots”, who had a pair of luminous socks in colours redolent of armbands worn at night to prevent being run over. These socks were bright green on the outside, and bright orange on the inside. He wore the socks outside out for the first week, and inside out for the second week.
That kept the pair together. Then he washed them by hand and repeated the process all over again for the next fortnight.
Love Dad
Imagine the smell! Arrgghh!
Did that make him slightly soxed?
That was quite distressing, Dad 😀
But it does not surprise me. Students and their socks are a whole different blogathon. (Shudder)
Oh! I love your socks 😉
Thanks Tok 🙂
In my student days I gave up with the battle of rejoining identical sock to identical sock and decided wearing odd ones was the way to go. An awful lot less stress! 🙂
I think I must adopt that mindset, idiosyncraticeye. It sounds healthy 🙂