The Sock Incident

There is a pair of socks outside our bedroom door. They have been there for several days, and I have finally mustered up the enthusiasm to try and trace their owner.

My 2 older sons are missing, so I pick up the socks, which are obviously in need of washing, and head downstairs, in search of the fourth male-who-knows-everything in my life - my youngest son. I find him in the living room.

"Do you know who these socks belong to?" I ask, turning them to the right side.

"They're 'Playboy' socks. They belong to *******," (eldest son) he replies.

"Oh!" I say. "I wasn't sure whether they belonged to ********" (middle son).

"No, those are his," he explains, pointing outside, in the vague direction of the patio. I walk closer to the window, and see a pair of socks over the back of one of the garden chairs.

"Obviously," I mutter, with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

"What?" He looks at me, wide-eyed and incredulous. I open my mouth to try and explain. A few words fall out of my open mouth, but they do not emerge in any intelligible pattern, and I realise that I am unable to explain. It all makes sense to him. I am feather-brained, so I should not concern myself with such a complex problem. I admit defeat. At least I know what to do with the socks.

I go back upstairs, and add them to my eldest son's pile of laundry, which he insists on keeping on the landing, outside the door of his seething pit. I remember that he has been staying at his girlfriend's house for the last few nights. I pick up his laundry pile, and drop it on the floor, just inside his seething pit. I close the door with a grin of satisfaction. The landing is now clear of clutter. I could even vacuum it, if I was so inclined. I am not.

I have already achieved something, today. I have tidied away a pair of socks, and a pile of laundry. I live in a household full of men. I have learned to be content with very little. I am content.