Socks! Now don’t get me started.

A very irate and down right angry women who I decided early on in our meeting was in fact a real contender for Frown of the week ( if she played her cards right!). Well naturally she was bemoaning socks.

Do tell, I hear you bellow from the gods.
Telling  how she had only just bought her number two son a six-pack pair that week and on day eight he hadn’t a matching pair to his name.

Been there, bought the socks, done the laundry and created the sock puppet!

She has a paper bag at the top of her landing full, brimming over even with socks and every now and again she’ll attack it not with the Hoover head ( though Dyson’s are all the rage among the frown fraternity) in an effort to match up some of them. Oh she can make a good go of it , get about a dozen or so to add to the young lads armoury of stinking footwear but it’s the remainder. They have hardly ever been worn.

One odd blue one a pink strippy one for crying out loud, you get the picture. ( oh she admits they’d make grand bed socks but hey that’s a winter story)

I put forward my theories on socks making a break for it, joining the circus, taking up jobs as taxi drivers, working in the zoo, aspirations we all head at one time ( we both nodded, her with a far away look in her one good eye. The other I couldn’t make out if it was me or the cornflakes on the top shelf it was after). Armed with screwdrivers the dominant sock could be caught attacking the tumble dryer mid cycle or leaping off the washing line at mid night leaving behind its mate ( abandoned hose!)

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