Socks Appeal

I’ve never listed ‘sharp feet’ among my physical characteristics but sometimes I wonder if I grow razorblades instead of toenails, the ease by which I shred socks.  I’m pretty much reliant on distant relatives buying me replacements for Christmas.  It’s easy for them, what with them not knowing me and all: they always plump on the blandest, least offensive, garment possible.  And that suits me just fine.  In the past, when I’ve been let out on my own, I have recklessly tried to buy my own.  Unfortunately by the time I’ve returned home, my brave Stop-Being-So-Stuffy-Let’s-Try-Something-Different idea has metamorphosized into some hideous lime green stocking that would only fit a child pygmy.  And I don’t want to talk about the terrible terrible time I tried to buy some underwear for T.  All I’ll say is that it looked very nice on the model and how else was I supposed to determine her size?

While most socks only seem to survive a few hours on my feet, there is one notable exception.  I’m not entirely sure what alien fabric they’re made from but my rugby socks are still pristine.  Now, remember, I was at school not long after sulky Webb Ellis tried to take his ball home, so these socks have been around a while.  It’s incredible but there’s no sign of wear and tear.  Even though they should be in a museum or being analysed by scientists, I still use them every time I embark on any slightly masochistic athletic adventure.  Like this afternoon’s biking expedition.  However, with my stripey black and white socks pulled up to my knees and jersey covering my cycling shorts, I ended up looking more like a St Trinian’s-themed drag act than a hardcore mountain-biker.  And I’m sure that the distance my friend kept from me was purely for reasons of safe cycling.

Comments

[school_dubl]

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