Migraine stops play. A repost ….
There must be a scientific law which governs socks, specifically.
Each belongs with an identical twin, does it not? 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.
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.
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.
But: back to the santitsed 21st century present. I must find a way of harnessing the power those tiny garments have to fling themselves to disparate parts of our universe.
Time to invent magnetic socks.