Intersock

OK, so I’ve done the washing. Nothing to it really. Ignore the dials and bung it in.

 “Anything I can do today?” I ask sotto vocce as I’m eating my muesli and she’s going out the door.

“Yes, you can sort the socks” Slam.

Damn her Vulcan hearing.

OK, well I’ve got half an hour between Everybody Loves Raymond and the Jeremy Kyle Show, so I grab the huge pile of socks off the drier, and put them on the kitchen table.

First sort: my socks, her socks. My socks are all exactly the same. All black, all the same size, shape, pattern, characteristics, behaviour, common haunts. If six of my socks were in a police identity parade, there would be no cry of “that’s 'im officer, I’d recognise the bastard anywhere!”

They are also much larger than her socks, so I separate them out, pair them up. 5 minutes: done.

Second Sort: her socks. They are all blackish. Or brownish. Or dark greyish. All plain, no patterns. The tops are subtly different, as are the heals, the shape, the texture, the material. I first try to sort them by size: all the same. By colour. Ah, here are some brown ones, but tiny differences in shades. Aha! Here are two socks 

exactly the same shade, but hang on a minute: the elastic at the top is subtly different.

I try to sort them into some sort of common piles, but the piles keep on getting smaller and more multitudinous.

Christ on a bike: this is ridiculous. How does she shop for socks?

“Can I help you madam?”

“Yes, I’d like an assortment of socks picked at random from that large sack you have over there.”

“Certainly, and how many socks would madam like?”

“Oh, any prime number above 50 will do”

“And how many different colours?”

“Oh any prime number over 10 will do.”

“A wise choice madam. Can I suggest our ‘They Look The Same But Not Up Close’ range?”

Finally I have the socks sorted into piles of matching socks. 29 piles, one sock each. Don’t socks come in pairs? Where the hell are all the partners? Is there some sort of international sock matching organisation? Intersock?

“Lieutenant! You know that Ladies Pringle Tiffany Cerise Plain Trouser Sock?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“We gotta match!”

“You’re shitting me. Where?”

“Found in the second drier near the back of the Ulugbek Medrese 24 hour Laundrette in Samarkand!”

“OK Johnson, let’s saddle up. I want the Learjet prepped and on the tarmac in 30 minutes. Let’s go get that sucker!”

I’ve got to get out more.

Washing

Last week, I had absolutely nothing planned. Nothing. Which is good, right?

Wrong.

Sitting in the kitchen Sunday evening, and the missus comes in with a load of washing,. She is about to piut it in the washing machine and starts hitting buttons, putting various sprays and potions in mysterious compartments, mutters several incantations, slaughters a goat etc.

She should, of course, have said to me, "you've got nothing to do tomorrow, whereas I have a full day of high powered stuff to do, so do you think you could interrupt your busy schedule of swinging your legs out of the bed and at least manage to put some washing on?"

But no; far too wily for that. She just ignores me. Well, two can play at that game. So we ignore each other. I read the paper, as if nothing is amiss, but then the heartless woman delivers the coup de grace with all the coldbloodedness and arrogance of Enrique Ponce as he slaughters his 100th bull of the season. She gives me a pitiless stare and says, "would you like a cup of tea?"

That's it. I instantly crumble. I have never felt so guilty, and I've never done the washing. OK, I do lots of other stuff (well, some other stuff), but not the washing. That's terrible. Time to make amends, so I say, "no, no let me make the tea, and let me do the washing from now on."

I then realise to my horror,. that I do not actually know how to operate the washing machine. Can't be THAT hard, can it? Do I admit this, or do I run the risk of ruining her best Ball Gown. I try to play the middle game. " Umm...is there anything...specific... I should know?"

She, of course, rumbles me instantly. "Do you want me to show you how to operate the washing machine?"

"Er..."

“OK, I’ve got some woollens here, so I’ll do it on the easy care wash. No, I think I'll use Delicates. No, I’ll just use easy care at 60 degrees. No, 40 degrees is fine” She spins various dials.

“Why not on “woollens?”

“Don’t need that.”

“Why’s it there then?”

“I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“How about underwear?”

“I’d use cottons. See? This dial over here. 60 degrees. Maybe 90”

“What’s the ‘mixed load’ button for?”

“Er…a mixed load, but don’t use that”

“OK, well why are there two separate sets of buttons, with similar temperatures, but different cloth types?”

“Look, just stuff it on, OK? But Don’t mix my underwear with your underwear?

“Why not?”

“One’s black, one’s white. Not good”

“When do you use the ‘intensive stains‘ button?”

“If you have to use the intensive stains button, it‘s time to get a carer in. Don‘t go there.”

“Well, what about the “freshen up button? The Express button? What’s the “Rinse plus“ button do?”

“Don’t bother with those. Unless you need to“

Ye Gods, I tell you, I’d have more chance of landing a Jumbo Jet blindfold..

“Now what are you doing?”

“putting in conditioner.” She opens a compartment that is made up of a rabbit warren of smaller compartments. “Goes in here”

“What’s the other ones for.”

“Pre-wash”

“When do you use that? “

“I don’t”

“Now what?”

“Powder. Goes in here.”

“How much?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just put it in.”

“Now what are you doing?”

“Spraying your shirt with Vanish”

“Why?”

“Because it’s got curry stains on it. It may interest you to know that I personally keep the Vanish Stain Remover Company afloat with the amount of Vanish I use to get curry stains out of your shirts. Any more questions??”

Yes. Can I go back to work?

Dust

We have a chap who is primarily a carpenter, but is also one of those rarest of rare shy woodland creatures:

-          Good at just about anything from building a bathroom / wall / kitchen / doing the electrics / plumbing / plastering / painting /gutter clearing, to  putting up a toilet roll holder

-          Completely honest

-          Completely reliable

-          Not expensive

-          Never stops for a break except for 30 mins for lunch max

-          Does not particularly like chatting

-          Does what he says he’ll do when he says he’ll do it

BUT he moves around the planet in a miasma of dust. It does not matter how large or small the job is, when he’s gone, everything is covered in dust. My brother-in-law had him in just to do something in the garden: he never even went in the house, but he swears there was a thin patina of dust over everything in the house nonetheless., and I believed him

Had him in last week to take out a window and build a wall. Usually, if he’s doing something, I am at work so miss the worst of the dust, but being retired I got the full force. I knew he was about to arrive on the first day, as I suddenly got grit in my mouth just before he rang the bell.

I am on supper duty every day now of course, so that evening I made

Spaghetti Carbonara with grated plaster

Grit & Green Salad

and to drink a very good Chilean Merlot with a brick dust chaser

Ladies who Lunch

Well last week I finally managed to become, for the first time since retirement, a lady who lunches. Or a geezer who went out for coffee at least.

I proudly put on one of my freshly ironed shirts with the razor sharp random creases, and strolled out.

I live quite near the Artisan Bakery-infested North London "village" of Crouch End, which for those who do not know,  is a trendy haven for self-employed, self-satisfied, smug web-designer and childrens' book author parents and their hideous, undisciplined, spoilt, precocious brats called Samphire and Max.

They make walking down the pavement hell, as they come towards you with their huge buggies which nowadays are the size of Mack trucks, and heaven help you if you have the audacity not to leap out of their way, because, as everyone knows, parents-with-children take absolute priority over all other pedestrians, shoppers, funeral corteges, nonagenarians with walking frames, corpses and cafe-goers.

It is a God-given right to let their devil spawn run riot in any cafe or restaurant of their own choosing,  so that Crouch End can resemble a huge creche populated by Incubi and Succubi and their miniature offspring.

Now don’t get me wrong: I myself have two children (now grown up) , and I probably succumbed on the odd occasion to the false belief that anyone would be delighted by all the antics and screeching of my darling offspring, but that was different. That was my own kids, twenty years ago. This is now. This is me. Bollocks to the lot of them.

So I am walking along Crouch End High Street dodging the Mack trucks, looking for a café with a relatively low child infestation when what should I see but a sign put up by one brave proprietor outside their hostelry that said in huge capital letters in place of Today's Specials,

"ATTENTION ALL PARENTS: ANY UNACCOMPANIED OR MISBEHAVING CHILDREN WILL BE GIVEN A DOUBLE ESPRESSO AND A FREE KITTEN"

I shall be there for my breakfast, lunch and supper from now on