“Ode to the Vanished Sock”

Life’s still getting in the way a bit. My days off this week were mostly swallowed up by work. Wednesday turned into an extra shift — orientation in my new role (there’ll be more of those, I’m sure). Thursday vanished into a three-hour Health and Safety training session, followed by errands in town and chores at home. And today? Todays about domestics. But maybe — just maybe — I’ll get a chance to play with yarn for a while this afternoon, before trotting off to see the chiropractor again.

The good news is my back is improving. It’s much stronger than it was, and I’m so grateful for all the healing thoughts and kind wishes you’ve been sending my way. I’ve only got three shifts left in my old role — three more days of heavy lifting and wrangling hoists in rooms that always feel two sizes too small. Fingers crossed I can get through them without undoing all the progress that’s been made.

On the subject of domestics, yesterday while hanging laundry I discovered that I was missing a sock. Not uncommon I know, but my mind wouldn't leave it alone and along came this little ditty.

 “Ode to the Vanished Sock”

I lifted the bucket with laundry in tow,

From ensuite to washer, a practiced old flow.

The garments went tumbling, a sudsy ballet,

Then spun into silence and rinsed clean away.

But lo! When I hung them with care and with flair,

On Gran’s wooden airer (a relic most rare),

A sock was not present, its twin hung alone—

A soft, warm comfort, now utterly gone.

I searched in the drum with a hopeful lament,

Then scoured the laundry with nose to cement.

I peered in the ensuite, behind every nook,

Even checked in my shoes for the sock it forsook.

My trouser legs trembled beneath my inspection,

My scrub pockets yielded no woolen confection.

I circled the airer, I whispered its name,

But the sock played a trickster’s invisible game.

Then Tony arrived, with detective-like grace,

He retraced my steps at a galloping pace.

He checked every crevice, each slipper and shoe,

But the sock stayed elusive, as socks often do.

Was it swallowed by portals that socks often find?

Did it flee for adventure, leave comfort behind?

Is it sipping espresso in some Parisian drawer,

Or moonlighting boldly as a dusting décor?

While folding dry washing, each towel and each tee,

A lump in a sleeve gave a whisper to me.

There it was—my warm wanderer, snug as can be,

Tucked inside Tony’s shirt like a sock refugee.

No portals, no Paris, no laundry lament,

Just a sleeve-hugging hideout, quite sock-competent.

Now I sip from my Scrub Stitchin’ mug with a grin,

With the sock and its twin reunited once again.

*

Yes, after hunting all over the house yesterday, I found the sock this morning, right there on Grans airer, tucked into a shirt sleeve. And quickly added the final two quatrains.

So, about today's activities....

The vacuuming’s done, the bread machine is churning away like a happy little cauldron, and the ironing in yesterday’s laundry is eyeing me from the pile. One of the veg gardens needs a tidy, and there’s still pea straw waiting patiently to be spread on the flower beds — but first, one particular shrub that getting to be a little large, needs to be relocated, and my back’s not quite up for solo digging duty. So, for now, I’m dreaming of yarn. Just a quiet moment to knit, crochet, or do something delightfully creative before I run out of day again. Thank goodness it's fish and chips for tea tonight, quick and easy. Sigh, I'd better get the ironing done, I need my scrub trousers for work tomorrow. The sooner I get some chores done, the sooner I can sit 'n' knit.