Instalment One Hundred and Thirty One

I could tell you where it is that socks go to but if you knew, you would never touch a sock again. It’d make you sick to your stomach. And don’t you dare blame the lost sock. It’s not what the lost sock did, your lost sock is not lost. It’s not ‘hiding’ from you as you grumble to yourself while you search for it. It left. Up and hopped out. It’s what the sock you still have did wrong. Yes, the sock still damp from the wash you're holding as you peer under the bed and rummage through the laundry basket looking for its partner. It’s an odd sock. You see socks, like lobsters and Biblical characters, mate for life. The sock left behind is odd, that’s why it’s single now, your odd sock. You will try and pair it up with a similar yet slightly different sock you’ve held onto but your forced marriage won't work. Every time your groping hand pulls the mismatched twosome from the draw you will recoil and dig for an original pairing. No, I said don’t ask what it did, never ask, just throw the odd sock out, its partner will never return.