On Socks

It takes about 385,437 years for me to hang my socks up to dry on laundry day, but just the same, I still make certain to line them up in neat little pairs, all straightened out.

I wasn't always like this. Not so long ago, I simply used to toss them in the general direction of the drying rack and hope for the best - but, after slinking home to my parents' for a sneaky week away from university (having neglected to pack enough socks), I did a load of washing before going to bed. Crucially, I employed my usual drying rack tactic of 'fire-and-forget'.

Approximately seven and a half hours later, I woke to find that dad (from whom I clearly inherited my epic powers of slinking about) had rearranged them all as I slept so that I'd come down to find them arranged in happy pairs, just as if it were Noah’s Ark.

That's a secret code, you know. He's trying to tell me that I'm one of his top-two favourite daughters.

From that day onwards, if ever you catch a glimpse of my handiwork on laundry day, you'll see me curating an Ark of my own.

It does prolong the process by about 385,436.999 years, but I imagine that dad would be tossing and turning in his sleep if he thought that either of his two daughters had fledged the nest, only to start drying her crumpled socks all out of order.

I’ve always wanted to make him proud: there are no lonely socks on his watch, so there'll be no lonely socks on mine.

Coming soon to a screen near you!