Pairing socks is my least favourite household task.
Everything else I can cope with. You name it, I’d rather do it, up to my elbow in the worst housework has to offer if necessary. Much better to have my arm up a cold drainpipe trying to unblock something unmentionable than to stand in the warm, turning through recently laundered clothes in search of one sock, and then something that resembles its mate. A passing similarity will do. I’m not going for exact matches here; god, that’d take even longer. It’s time I consider completely wasted and, frankly, I’ve had just about enough of it.
But I have persevered because, well, what’s the alternative? I’m just not a no-socks and deck shoes kind of bloke. I’ve got to have them. All boring and black is fine, but they’ve got to be cleaned at some point.
Then, late last year, something remarkable happened. Now, I’m not going to call this bad parenting, because I was kept alive in my youth and then sent out into the world with rudimentary cooking skills and able to get something approximating a job. But it still took 40 years for my mum to impart what is quite possibly the finest piece of advice she has ever given. “Get two net bags,” she said. “Put all your clean socks in one, dirty socks in the other. When the clean bag is nearly empty, wash the dirty ones. Then you’ll have a bag of clean, identical socks and won’t have to pair them.”