Happy Endings for Hosiery

Scrambled eggs and spicy tomatoey deliciousness.

Peanutbutter, honey and banana on toast.

It is a rare load of laundry for me in which only pairs of socks emerge at the other end.  And yet, today I have achieved just that: a rummage of contentedly coupled hose (rummage seems to me to be the aptest collective noun for socks that I can think of). So, my contribution to the pantheon of writings about lost socks is an usual, happy tale of halves and their wholes. That's nice. For the socks.

Darning, and Other Acts of (Self) Love

Peanutbutter and banana on toast.

A few weekends ago, I spent a goodly portion of a morning darning the many holes in the cashmere socks that I wear to bed when it's cold. Darning, I realise, is the greatest act of self love there is.

It is also -- I realised when I woke up this morning with my big toe protruding through a new unravelling -- the most Sisyphean act there is. Well, that and tidying my bedroom.

The Big Question…

Rice crispies and raspberries

Where oh where did my other flamingo sock get to?

Bed Socks

Muesli and blueberries.

This is the current temperature in my bedroom...

... Which is why I have to dress like this for bed...

I know what you're thinking. I don't understand why I'm not married to Matt Damon either.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Eighth

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and banana.

It transpires that if you get up very early and have breakfast at silly o' clock, you require second breakfast at 10 o' clock. (I didn't photograph the second breakfast: I was hoping to get away with calling it early elevenses, even if it was a distinctly cerealish affair.)

The fact that I am part dormouse must, in fact, save me a fortune in second breakfasts. Well, not a fortune; but you know, enough pennies to keep me in strawberry bonbons and stripey socks. And where would a girl be without those?

Breakfast the Sixty-Eighth

Honey Nut Cornflakes and Blueberries.

I want to know what has happened to all my socks. They're not in my drawer and they're not in my laundry basket.  I don't even seem to have many odd socks kicking about. Even the sock I keep my camera in has gone missing. I feel like Prince George in Blackadder.

I'm writing this in a turret, which is pleasing. Equally pleasing is the fact that the keyboard I'm writing this on makes a sort of bubbling, splish-sploshy noise when you type. The drawback to turrets though, is that they're rather chilly; my fingers are cold, cold, cold. Especially my left index finger which, ever since I slammed it in a door a couple of years ago, is almost always colder than the others. I know not why. But it hasn't dropped off yet, so I suppose there mustn't be anything sinister in it: it's just a subpar sort of a digit.