It happened like this. I had a friend who thought I was being poetic, or flippant perhaps, when I said that all my sock had holes in 'em. And he refused to believe me when I told him that no, in fact, all of my socks really did have holes in 'em. Hence my exhibition. No, my socks were not ruined by Murphy. Murphy can be uppity about some things. She won’t play with a sock. Even when I go, “Where’s Barney? Where’s Barney?” and I proffer a sock, she will not be fooled. No. My socks were ruined by time and by, I guess, my own feet.

But my new socks came just in the nick of time. Although I don’t really know what a nick can do to time? Regardless, it was just in time.

It snowed this morning. And my toes were toasty warm in my new holeless socks. Well, of course, they have the one hole, into which you put your foot. And I suppose on some molecular level they have millions of holes. Clearly, I have not a lot to talk about. But make no mistake; I’m thrilled with my new socks. And all of my socks match. And I can even lose one or two socks to the mystery dryers downstairs and it doesn’t matter so much because they all match. Ah, simplicity.

Simplicity starts with two dozen matching socks. Christ, I should be writing fortune cookies. I wanted to throw a fortune cookie party once when I was in Uni. Things like: Fortune cookies lie. Something entirely in random Egyptian hieroglyphics. Someone at this party has an STD. Guess who and guess which one. You will be aggressively pursued by the Mormons. Years from now you will wonder what you did with your life. Self-abuse is rocking good fun. I saw what you did. We all saw what you did. You will never get the life you think you deserve with that haircut. And so on. We never did manage it. But we had quite a long list.

Meanwhile, any suggestions what to do with about 20 ruined socks? I’ve got: seal my air conditioner. Get some googlie eyes and make sock puppets. Make a tiny little graveyard for 'em – something about socks persuades me to use “‘em” which I am not ever, otherwise, likely to do. Get a picture of a sweaty muscle boy and sell them online, purporting that I am this fellow and that I wore them. Start a ball of ruined socks that will years from now be my biggest claim to fame. Put them in the dryer and see how many come out.

Somewhat giddy from pure pleasure,

SS