ODD SOCKS

‘What on earth?’

My husband stands on the landing surveying a long line (nineteen in fact) of short white sports socks spread out over the carpet in the bedroom. Some of them display a logo on the instep or sole; some have a coloured ring around the ankle; a grey toe here and a pink heel there; long baggy ones next to little short ones shrunk over the years to half the length of my size sevens.

‘These are my odd ones. I’m trying to find some more pairs.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Sensible I’d have thought.’

He shakes his head as he steps over the row and I check the drawer for any further culprits. How dare they mislay their other-halves. What a state the world would be in if we were equally as careless.

I exclaim in triumph as I rescue a miniature sock from his collection of size elevens.

‘Hurray, that brings it down to eighteen odd ones!’ The activity has not been in vain. I gather up the convocation of shorty sporties and add them to the odd-sock collection in a carrier bag in the cupboard.

For the time being – mission accomplished.