New to (Part) Five: Sock Conspiracy: The New Evidence

I didn't dare post this at the weekend, but on Saturday LC was heard enticing FS to "go on, grab Daddy's socks". Funsize is currently at the stage where anything in the hand promptly finds itself in the mouth, so...

What this all means:

• As we know from "JFK" (the film, not the president), when two or more people are involved you have, by definition, a conspiracy.
  
• As I have long suspected, the secrets of the Sock Conspiracy are indeed passed from mother to daughter.
  
• You might not hear from me again after this...

Tee hee.

Infamy and Betrayal!

Lament with me, gentle readers, for the inevitable has happened...

With the arrival of Lady Chocolat, life in the Apartment of Mirth has seen a great many changes, many of them trivial and others far more significant. One that seemed trivial was LC's quite unreasonable assertion that my policy of doing my washing on a Thursday was totally unacceptable. (It's not like I have a shortage of clothes, you understand - I had a suitable abundance of socks that I could last a whole month if pressed to it.)

Anyway, I managed to get away with it for the first week. LC was distracted with the task of moving in and finding homes for most of her stuff, and so I was able to merrily postpone the weekly wash until Thursday. And all was well with the world... for a while.

It couldn't last, of course. I had to return to work last week, and so was not able to stand guard any longer. And, as we all know, the price of not having your t-shirts ironed is eternal vigilance...

And so, yesterday while I was busy cooking an epic dinner, LC stealthily hijacked the living room and did a whole bunch of ironing, quite in defiance of the "no housework at weekends" policy. Truly, it was a horror!

But worse was to come later, when I found myself confronted with a pile of t-shirts, all of them carefully ironed and folded! I mean, what was I to make of this new infamy? Clearly, t-shirts are not meant for such things - they should be washed, hung, and any remaining creases left to fall out when subjected to body heat. That's the rule, and if it leaves them a bit scruffy-looking, well, that's just part of my Han Solo-esque charm. (!)

Well, it turned out that even that was not the full extent of the horrors to come. In fact, the ironed t-shirts were nothing more than a cunningly-placed distraction, because when I turned to the pile of socks...

No, I can't go on. It's too painful.

...

...

sob

...

When I turned to the pile of socks, one of them was missing!

Yes, it's true. After more than a decade of doing my own washing, and never once losing a single sock, and then less than a week after letting my guard down, the sock conspiracy have struck!

(And this after LC spent months, months denying the very existence of the conspiracy, and becoming quite indignant that I persisted in my scepticism! Oh perfidious sex! Oh, sweetest betrayal! And to think that my poor socks must pay the price!)

(Oh, ridiculous hyperbole?)

Lament with me, gentle readers. The inevitable has happened...

(Incidentally, if I can find a way to tie this in to EU recycling targets and the end of the Mayan calendar, I might just have the plot for my bestselling novel - "The Sock Conspiracy", an hilarious parody of a Dan Brown novel in which our hero, a professor of sockology unveils an horrific secret...)

Culling the Wardrobe

Once again, I've been going through my wardrobe, sorting out the things that don't fit (actually very few), the things that haven't been worn in some time (also few), and the things that are just a bit too worn.

The end result is that I need to pick up a handful of items, mostly printed t-shirts. For the most part, though, I'm in surprisingly good shape. Huzzah!

However, in amongst all this, I was confronted with the ultimate question: just how many socks does one man need?

After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that the answer was "enough pairs for six weeks."

Allow me to explain: obviously, I need a two-week supply (in case I miss a wash). However, I also need a backup supply, in case of sock-conspiracy action. And then, there needs to be a backup backup supply, just in case.

So, six weeks.

And, just in case you are wondering at my logic here, or indeed whether this truly is the ultimate question of not, allow me just to point out that six weeks times seven days equals 42 pairs of socks. QED.

It is now officially acceptable to be Christmas-sy

It now being the first of December, it is officially okay to start thinking about Christmas. And, indeed, since my band are out on the 13th and the 20th, the time has come to make haste with the requisite preparations. To that end (and in list form):

• My Christmas decoration is now up. This actually went up yesterday, being the first Sunday in Advent. It is a piece of green tinsel on top of the TV.
  
• I have now ordered all but one Christmas present. The final gift requires a trip to the Early Learning Centre, but should be finished this weekend.
  
• My mutlitude of Christmas-themed socks have once again been added into rotation. This effectively doubles my sock collection, thanks to the efforts of the Sock Conspiracy.
  
• I'm still debating whether to go for a festive beard this year. On the one hand, it's Christmas, but on the other the festive beard lasted until March, so perhaps I should have a year off to compensate.
  
• I had a quick sing of "Jingle Bells" on my way to work this morning, when no-one was looking. This fulfils my obligatory quota of festive cheer for this year.
  

So, that's Christmas well in hand. Huzzah!

(Also, this is the 450th post on this blog. Huzzah again!)

Holey socks, Batman!

It goes without saying that when a pair of socks develops a hole, they should be thrown away. However, there remains a question that must be answered: just when should this be done?

In most cases, the hole in the socks will be noticed when putting them on in the morning. At which point, time is something of a factor. Moreover, there is the fair point that, if shoes are to be worn all day then there is no prospect of those holes being noticed.

So, the temptation is to wear them anyway, and throw them away later.

But then, there is the fact that one wouldn't want to throw away a pair of dirty and smelly socks. It just wouldn't be right. Which means, of course, that they must be washed.

But then, once you've gone to all the trouble of washing them, surely you wouldn't want to throw them away? And the cycle begins again.

Honestly, things were much easier when I was under the sway of The Sock Conspiracy.

(And another thing: why is it that my fun Simpsons and South Park socks develop holes in very short order, but my exciting Millennium socks just keep on going and going? They're like the Energiser Bunny of the sock domain.)