I WAS admiring shirts in one of the ubiquitous sales at Zenia Boulevard the other day, when the Princess, fresh from her own browsing, tapped me on the shoulder and suggested solemnly that I had more than enough shirts already taking up valuable space.
I couldn’t help noticing that she was toting a suspiciously large Zara bag at the time, but I said nothing.
But she was right, and I resolved then and there to have a good old sort out when we got home.
I am always grateful for my wife’s help when deciding what to keep and what to donate to charity or chuck out.
“You haven’t worn that since we got married”, she might say.
“That was thirty eight years ago.”
“Fair point” I would concede. “But you never know.”
And so it will go on until I make what I consider the minimum amount of concessions, and she is happy that at least a small clearing has been made in the forest of menswear.
Then I get to the sock drawer and I know what I will find, or more to the point what I will not find, because there will be an assortment of socks without partners.
What is it with this sock thing?
Sometimes of course the missing piece of footwear is easily explained; either stuck to the drum of the washing machine, or inadvertently left in the bottom of the linen basket. Mine occasionally show up in the cat’s basket and once I found one in my lunch box between two pieces of wholegrain bread and garnished with tomato and lettuce, but that was just the Princess having a joke.
I split my sides laughing.
But most of the time it’s as if they had never existed and simply disappear off the face of the earth. And it’s always the better quality ones that vanish; a Nike or a Pringle of Scotland for example, never the three pairs for five euro jobs.
And apart from the exceptions mentioned, they never turn up – ever.
Is this some mysterious intergalactic practice? A kinky alien race abducting odd footwear for their own perverted ends? A sort of “Beam me up socky.”
Because the really weird thing is, these items never even make it to the washing line. They simply go into the machine, but never come out.
I think I will start wearing odd socks, in the hope that I will become known as ‘The eccentric gentleman of Los Dolses’.