A few weeks after I came back from my last trip home I was scrabbling through the detritus on my bedroom floor looking for a clean, or at least cleanish, pair of socks. I wasn’t having much luck. The sniff test created a pile of disgusting heaving rejects and I was getting anxious.
If you'll pardon me getting philosophical, socks, I think, don’t need to be as clean as other items of clothing. The reason is simple: you wear them very far from your nose. So if they are a bit whiffy, that’s okay. But all the socks in my room were more than a bit whiffy. Let me tell you, they were foul.
Desperation sent me to my drawer, where all the socks I never wear are kept. All my good socks end up stinking on the floor and all my horrible, brightly coloured or worn out socks go in the drawer. Even though I never wear them, I still can’t throw them out. And there, on top, was my oldest pair of greys, at least a decade old and full of holes. Could I tease one more use out of them?
With great care, lest they disintegrate altogether like some ancient fabric from a Dead Sea cave, I slowly pulled them on.
But wait; there were no holes at all. My old greys were, if not like new, at least very acceptable.
It was early in the morning and my mind wasn’t clear. I found myself doubting my sanity. I took the old greys off again and inspected them closely in the dim morning light: they’d been comprehensively and professionally darned.
In my confusion I wondered if the Girlie, the little darling, had been furtively taking home economics classes at night and sneaking into my room to apply her new needlecraft skills. But surely that would require a total change in personality and a considerable boost in her energy levels?
I hadn’t been spending much time at home recently, but that couldn’t be the answer. No. It was a crazy idea - the thoughts of a madman.
I sat down to ponder the possibilities and slowly, through the gloom and the panic, managed to piece it all together:
1. My old greys had been hastily stowed in my bag before I went home to NZ;
2. I’d visited my Mum and Dad in Whangarei;
3. I’d unpacked them into my drawer when I got home.
Watson, there could be only one answer: my Mum is the dread Slippered Sock Darner of Old Whangarei Town. Somewhere, somehow, while I was out doing the many attractions of Whangarei or, more likely, having a run in prep for my triathlon (have I mentioned my triathlon, dear reader?), the dread Slippered Sock Darner sneaked into my bag and did mother-stuff to my socks.
The Girlie is acquitted once more of doing anything helpful, useful or caring. Imagine her teenage relief!
In contrast, my Mum is the gift that keeps on giving. Love you Mum! Love your work!
Anyway, as I said I haven’t seen much of the Girlie of late. I receive, on average, a couple of calls a night asking me, at two in the morning, to pick up laundry powder and vanilla yoghurt or somesuch on the way home.
“Sure. No problem.”
Never happens. The Girlie is on holiday and her biological clock has gone all weird, but we all have our crosses to bear.
Meanwhile, for a laugh and great use of Microsoft clip art, check out the Presidential Daily Briefing in Powerpoint.
Ciao.