The surprising joyfulness of socks

I am obsessed with my socks.

My new and rather lovely foot-coverings.

Some were gifted to me at Christmas following a Santa list which included ‘walking socks’. Sadly the self-propelling little runarounds I may have had in mind (sorry!) were not forthcoming, but instead I unwrapped some rather natty American outdoor items from my US-based brother in law who works as an outdoor pursuits leader (amongst other most glorious duties in a US college) and knows about these things.  He pointed out that the Vermont-created socks (from ‘Darn Tough’ – they do in fact sell in and ship to the UK) are  marketed as everlasting – and he has had a good go at testing the veracity of this claim. 

Anyhow, I was so pleased with these socks, and kept admiring them sitting there at the end of my legs, that I allowed myself to be influenced by social media adverts which kept popping up in my feed (hmm – can the algorithmicals now actually read my thoughts???) as I practised scrolling-as-an-alternative-to-constant-eating-in-January. I ordered a veritable bothy-load of thick hiking socks, succumbing in the process to an additional super-cheap come-on deal.

I now have 13 pairs of lovely socks which I did not have before Christmas.

I cannot tell you how much joy they are bringing me. Isn’t that ridiculous?

In my defence, whilst my time spent hiking is not huge, I don my walking boots reasonably regularly, but perhaps more importantly these days is that I have largely abandoned my slippers because the house has finally stopped being full of filthy dust following our building work, and the new heated floor makes it rather nice to rest a be-socked foot or two thereupon. So these socks will be well-used daily in a practical way as well as for weird vanity. 

I am currently listening to Miranda Hart’s audiobook “I Haven’t Been Entirely Honest with You” as I stomp around the neighbourhood. I am quite often irritated by her narration, in particular by her endlessly referring to me as MDLC (My Dear Listener Chum?) – and I am always a little wary of books which might fall into the category of ‘self-help’. However, I am somewhat surprised to find quite a lot with which I can, at least vaguely, agree. In describing her personal journey (“oops – unfortunate self-help terminology there for sure, sorry dear reader chum” – if you know Miranda, you can read that bit in her voice to get the idea…) to attempt recovery from a debilitating condition, she discusses various theories and suggestions she has tried. Whilst my scepticism and general antipathy to anything remotely ‘woo woo’ has been kicking in from time to time, there are definitely some nuggets of wisdom in this narrative. She talks about treasures and little joys – glimpses of rain-drops on leaves, for example – and this has struck a chord with me. Watching the birds in my garden would be an easily identifiable little joy of my own (apart from the b****y shrieking parakeets!).

I don’t think Miranda has specifically mentioned socks yet, but I feel sure she will before I reach the end.

I am not sure how many hours of fond staring will reduce this sock joy to a normal level of general well-being. I suspect it will depend on the level of colour deterioration and gradual bobbliness which ensues – and whether a similarly wonderful selection of, say, gloves might appear in my life.

In the meantime, I am putting my best foot forward (sorry my dear right foot, but my left is definitely better these days) and marvelling at its absolute gorgeousness.