Monday:
There are many mysteries in life. I’m not talking about the real mind twisters, like quantum theory, the Higgs Boson, what happened to Shergar, or why nobody has taken out Simon Cowell, or Jeremy Clarkson. No, I’m thinking about the seemingly inexplicable disappearance of socks. This may seem trivial and hardly worth investigation, but if we could discover the root of this mystery, we might, just might, uncover a universal truth, or a new unifying theory of everything.
As I sit here writing this today, I’m wearing odd socks. Not from choice, but because in the vast expanse of my sock drawer I can’t find a matching pair. Now there’s an obvious solution to this dilemma. I could buy job lots of socks of a uniform colour and design, so that I would always find two that were in agreement with each other. But I like variety and having Dennis the Menace socks, or ones with Santas and reindeer cavorting up the leg, adds a bit of a frisson to my otherwise mundane life. Wearing one of each is, however, a potential embarrassment, particularly on social occasions.
If I had a significant other I could blame her, thinking perhaps that she was secretly binning a sock or two just to wind me up. I can imagine that such an accusation might be seen by a divorce court judge as unreasonable behaviour on my part. In my less lucid moments, I’ve tiptoed into the bedroom and quickly opened the sock drawer to see whether I could detect any sign of movement or wanderlust amongst the hosiery. But no, there they sit almost smugly it seems to me, showing no sign of anything other than being inert. I check them more thoroughly and find that there are indeed some matching pairs. This makes me feel a little foolish and I can almost imagine the socks snickering at my feeble efforts to unravel the mystery. Weeks, even months might go by and I confidently start each day with both socks in accord, then inexplicably I can’t find two the same. Why? Shoes don’t do this and only go walkabout to order when they are firmly attached to one’s feet.
I have wondered whether sock manufacturers put some chemical or other into one of the socks, so that after a certain period of time it dissolves in the wash, forcing one to buy a new pair. I’ve also pondered on whether the washing machine itself is devouring the occasional sock. I’ve dismissed both of these thoughts as being slightly paranoid. No, there has to be some other explanation. I believe that it was Arthur Conan Doyle who said that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Arthur was a credulous old duffer, given to believing in fairies and the spirit world, but using his maxim, I think I might have stumbled upon a possible theory.
Socks are inanimate and as far as we know, can’t move under their own volition. They don’t have even a primitive form of intelligence or nervous system, like an amoeba, or Victoria Beckham. Thus, they are as incapable of being malevolent or mischievous as a tea cosy. They are not particularly aerodynamic and have little weight, except perhaps when they’re used to sleeve a lead pipe in a bank heist, or a smash and grab raid. They are usually constructed of cotton and man-made fibre, neither of which is known to be atomically volatile, or given to disappearing without cause. In short, socks are innocuous and boring, like day-time television, or muesli. But why then do they disappear? Here’s my theory. It’s a bit complex and I haven’t worked out the finer details, but I think it’s worthy of consideration and may yet earn me a place in the pantheon of modern physics. Of course, if the ultimate accolade resulting from my theory was a Nobel prize and a trip to Sweden, then I’d have to think about hiring a monkey suit and a bow tie.
Socks are fundamentally miniature black holes, where very little light escapes and where Newtonian physics break down. If Einstein had paid more attention to his sock drawer and less to his relatives, we all might have arrived at this conclusion long before now. I think that periodically some socks are sucked into the universe. While one is safely tucked in bed dreaming perhaps of winning the lottery, or using a politician as a punch bag, dynamic forces are at work. A supernova billions of light years away might suddenly implode, causing an inequality in the arrangement of electrons in the universe. We are told that nature abhors a vacuum, so the imbalance is corrected by the relocation of socks. But here’s the clever bit. It’s not all socks, just one of a pair, since to take both would be a further inequality of forces and might precipitate the sucking up of condoms, pantyhose, airport windsocks, or even the London underground.
I’ll bet that once interstellar travel gets under way, the Captain Kirks of the future will encounter no end of unmatched socks wandering the universe – they might even be a navigation hazard. Scotty, or his counterpart, may well have to shut down the warp engines because they are clogged with disparate, nomadic socks. Every now and then, over the achingly vast and cruelly indifferent expanse of space, two socks might joyfully re-unite and mysteriously re-appear back in their owner’s drawer. I’m still waiting for this to happen.
In the meantime, I’m working on why rusting shopping trolleys seem to be patrolling major road junctions many miles from any supermarket and why there always seems to be a fugitive teaspoon left in the bowl after I’ve finished washing the dishes. Maybe I should get out more. Odd socks or not.
Tuesday:
Twin misery this evening as the doves coo their arses off and the local bellringers have a practice session, flooding the town with their tuneless cacophony. I research further online into the doves and discover that they pair for life. So, if I were to get an air gun, I’d have to kill a married couple, because despite hating the bloody things, I couldn’t bear the thought of a lonesome dove which might coo plaintively for an eternity. Even if I could tell male from female and saw an obvious couple in one of the trees, they might just be brother and sister visiting each other. Killing them would create a widow and a widower. Or for all I know, each of them might be in a same sex relationship, which would mean that I would have to kill at least six doves just to be on the safe side. Or is it an odd number? Maths was never my strong point.
Just as I’m about to log off the search engine, I see a site that offers a solution to the problem. A dummy owl. Apparently doves are scared shitless by them and will keep quiet or piss off when they see one. I order an owl immediately. Fifteen quid - express delivery. I practice making hooting noises, which I hope will add to the deterrent factor once the dummy arrives and is ensconced on my balcony.
Wednesday:
I have a gig on Saturday, so I practice the sax. Fortunately, the Bellowing Brat doesn’t echo my playing. He’s presumably at school, possibly Ritalin-ed to the eyeballs and dribbling over a Janet and John book, or idly de-winging a fly.
I cook a small steak for my dinner and just as I’m settling down to eat it accompanied by a sensible salad and a plucky little Shiraz, it all kicks off downstairs. The Brat starts laughing hideously, then emits a stream of gibberish at high volume. His parents begin shouting at him to shut up and the result resembles what I imagine could have been the soundscape in the French lines at Agincourt, or the boiler room of the Titanic, as it plummeted to the icy depths. Then there is an eerie silence, eventually broken by the Brat singing the EastEnders theme, perfectly in tune. I’m sure that there’s some profound symbolic significance in all of this, but like the maths of the interpersonal relationships of the doves, it’s quite beyond me. Perhaps I’m losing my grip. Maybe the owl, once it has arrived and settled in, will sort it all out. It might even scare the Brat into silence.
Thursday:
On my way out to get my newspaper, I see that a new resident is moving into a first floor flat once occupied by a delectable beauty called Cordelia. I had grand plans for her, but she disappeared under mysterious circumstances last Christmas.* Reg, the lecherous caretaker is helping, so I surmise that my new neighbour is female. I waylay him as he struggles with a large box.
‘New resident?’ I enquire.
He taps his nose in that irritating way the he has, as if he’s a repository of secrets and mysteries and I’m a complete duffer.
‘Spoken for, Romeo,’he says.
I restrain the urge to kick him in the goolies and give him a rabbit punch as he sinks to his knees.
Friday:
Despite needing to lose a bit of weight, I decide to have fish and chips for lunch. As I wait my turn in the chippie, a group of kids comes in. None of them can be more than ten years old, but their language is appalling. Eff this and eff that. When I was a boy, swearing was almost entirely confined to “bloody” and “bugger” and even these comparatively mild expletives could shock and certainly earn boxed ears if uttered by a child. However, as I listen to these youngsters swear with impunity, I’m reminded of a story told to me by an old friend, Brenda.
She came from a very respectable middle-class family. Her father was an accountant and an ex-army officer. Once, when she was about seven years old, she spent an afternoon playing with a group of local boys from a nearby council estate. In the evening, as she and her family sat down to dinner and very politely helped each other to various dishes, she turned to her father and said,
‘Pass the salt, you cunt.’
Saturday:
The owl arrives in the post. It’s really quite impressive and realistic. I had expected it to be made from plastic, but it’s carved from wood and has a clip at its base for fixing it to a branch or whatever. It stands about fifteen inches high and has large glass eyes. If anything, it looks benignly wise rather than scary. The instructions advise rubbing it down with olive oil before deployment. I have recently eschewed real oil as part of my efforts to lose weight, so I spray it with “Fry Light”. Each squirt is apparently one calorie, so I give it about thirty and fix it on my balcony rail. I look down and see Patsy, Reg’s yappy little dog on the lawn below. She’s staring up at the owl, cocking her head from side to side. She then lets out a howl and scampers off. Brilliant! If Owl has this effect on a dog, then the wretched doves should soon decamp. I wonder if I could smuggle one into the belfry of the local church to scare off the bloody bellringers.
And so to the gig tonight, with a folk/rock band with whom I recorded an album several decades ago. They’re nice guys and good musicians. Although I only play on three numbers, I fly and really enjoy it. Making music is always a hit and miss thing and maybe I’ll never know precisely what it is that can make one performance great and another mediocre or dire.
When I return home to the flat, I can see Owl silhouetted against a beautifully clear night sky and I feel strangely reassured. I step out onto the balcony with a glass of wine and as Owl and I scan the heavens together in companionable silence, I notice that the “Fry Light” has given my new friend an eerie sheen.
Sunday:
There seems to be a marked reduction in cooing today, so perhaps Owl is earning his keep.
*See Age of Bewilderment
AGE OF BEWILDERMENT is now available as a book at www.bwildr.net or from Amazon/Kindle
AGE OF BEWILDERMENT is now available as a book at www.bwildr.net or from Amazon/Kindle
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