Socks and bras and all that shite


A recent trip to Germany got me thinking, or rather it reaffirmed something I already knew: socks are pointless. Take that a step further: life is better without socks. Take that a leap further: life is better for women without bras, but we’ll come to that more controversial point later.

Someone somewhere at sometime thought that little L-shaped tubes of soft (often arbitrarily stripy) material (rarely 100% cotton these days) pulled on to our feet at all times made us more civilised. And if you live in Eastern Europe or Italy, then you believe like a law that not wearing socks will eventually kill you. And you will shout at your daughter-in-law for not putting socks on your one-year-old. Well Mr Sock, Eastern Europeans and Germans, I beg to differ. I hate socks.

What a sock can do, a shoe with an insole can do just as well and when the insole stinks, bin it and get a new pair. Or become a Cornish cliché and go flipflop. Or just go around on your bare feet. Yes, that’s right, bare skin, the stuff you were born in, it’s fairly useful. The only victory I will concede to socks is a long walk in hiking boots: you can’t beat a shin-hugging pair of real wool socks to make the experience all the more comfortable. A Sherpa wearing flipflops up to the summit of Everest could argue differently, alas, I can’t.

Take the concept of socks and apply to babies. If Mr Sock wasn’t having a laugh from whatever hosiery heaven he may now be residing in, then I have misunderstood the purpose of humour over the last 41 years. Keeping aforementioned items on tiny feet is akin to holding a poached egg in your hand (an analogy based on an accidental real life experience from this morning’s breakfast). It is impossible.

Yes I could buy Sock Ons and all will be well with the world. NO IT BLOODY WON’T! Why? Because then I will not only own a collection of teeny tiny socks but I will also be in possession of teeny tiny weird pieces of elasticated fabric that cover the teeny tiny socks that go on the teeny tiny person’s feet- how is this circle of absolute sockish hell not visible to the naked eyes of others?!

My solution – expose his little feet to the elements. This morning, the windy fingers of Storm Dodo caressed his tiny flat soles on the way to nursery and as far as I am aware, he is still alive. If you are concerned that they may not make it – can I advise a blanket, it wraps ever so nicely around teeny tiny feet to keep them warm. If not in possession of a blanket then a coat wrapped around the feet will do the job just as well.

And that brings me to bras, well, maybe not today, eh?!

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