The Sock Drawer.

A place of hope, honour, belief and faith. A place we yearn for in treacherous times, a beacon we turn to in times of need, in times of cold, wooden flooring in the winter. A place we all convince ourselves we can trust, yet subconsciously know , this is far from the truth.

Let us take, for example, a miserably drizzly November evening. You’re getting dressed, but you can already feel the cold…biting. You wrap up with multiple layers, squeezing into thick old jumpers. Lastly, you reach for the sock drawer. All you need now is a simple pair of thick, cotton socks, to keep your sensitive paws protected against the callous laminate flooring. Your hand delves into the assortment of repugnant fabrics. To your absolute disgust, your proffering hand is presented, not with a snug pair of new socks, but with a horrific assortment of old and new, with none in pairs. You may meander blindly through four or five different odd socks before finding that this approach is futile, and that all of your socks partners have been inconspicuously murdered or abducted -rendering the vast population of your socks widowed. At this point, you may attempt to harmlessly unite various random socks, which display what you judge to be ‘similar’ characteristics.

Don’t do it! 

To say this is a perilous route to navigate would be a crass understatement. Amongst some of the odd, age worn socks, you discover socks which definitely never belonged to you. Socks belonging to friends, family members, Boer war veterans, Gail from Corry and mediocre newsreaders populate the sock hostel. You soon realise that these haphazard monstrosities’ of socks could never realistically be integrated with one and other, retreating from the battle to fuse oddsocks in holy matrimony for at least another day or two.  

Having exhausted all other available opportunities to obtain a logical pair of socks from the overabundance that remained in the drawer, your final option is clear. One last plunge into the abyss of socks to, if God would permit it, acquire a pair of socks. Your hand forces its way through the creepers; through years and seasons, reaching back further and further in time as you go, the socks consuming more and more of your arm as you reach, and reach… 

Finally, a pair! Delightedly, you withdraw your tightly clasped hand to reveal the precious riches of your mission into the unknown.  You should have suspected it from the outset, yet the overwhelming feeling of a pair of socks in the palm of your hand was just too much to supress. You allow your fingers to unfurl about the bittersweet package, revealing, infuriatingly, a fully formed pair of matching trainer socks.  

The sock drawer is an archaic means by which to store your socks. In its design it is problematic – rarely categorized, it is a melting pot for socks of all purposes, lengths and materials. It has been well documented that the likes of Plato and Socrates wrote of their lament of their own sock drawers, thousands of years ago in their ancient philosophy. It has even been alleged that Problem fourteen of Jay-Z’s famous 99 was in fact the ludicrous nature of the sock drawer. Unfortunately nobody seems willing to tackle the on-going enigma of the sock drawer, such is its slapdash authority in the lives of us all – it seems we all let our sock drawers control us.

Family Gathering.

There I sat, in the mint green armchair in the corner of my Grandmother’s house, carefully observing the various goings on in the various sections of the familiar living room. It was the day of that inevitable event, the event which seemed to escape the seemingly robust clutches of memory - until you were due to be attending it in half an hour. It was the event which cloaked itself in shameful dust on the calendar, the annual event that would never cease to prove itself to be both fruitless and unnecessary to most, if not all attending; the family gathering.

Amidst the exquisite finger foods, (sausage rolls, prawn cocktail, homemade breads, cakes, flapjacks, shortbreads etc, etc) a seamlessly awkward and sporadic undertone of forced conversation swept through the room. A bubbly middle aged woman, well read in artificial gossip magazines and well-travelled in the tinned goods aisles of local supermarkets, scurried about offering cups of tea to guests, with uncomfortable frequency. It feels as if a cup of tea is offered to guests more so at these synthetic Sunday afternoons than at any event or scenario in the brief history of time.

“Tea? More Tea?”

No thank you, you’ve literally just handed me this mug.

I sat, silently observing from the corner of the room. Fragments of conversations could be heard from all about the room. Some trickled unintentionally through the net of confidentiality, barely audible. Some were bawled out with gusto and with only the intention of being heard.

“The one I was on the other day must’ve had only 50 of us on! It was quite unreal”

“How have your tomatoes fared this year?”

Etc, etc.

Occasionally, some of the slightly more socially developed creatures of this assumed herd of the same stock would approach me for some polite, tennis-like conversation. On this occasion, the oncoming relative was an exuberant and eccentric cousin, a good fifteen years senior of myself.

The man had a towering, colossal frame, dwarfing every other person present at a striking 6”6. Yet he handled himself with an air of Christian pleasantry, and always spoke with a tone of genuine curiosity in the transient, commonplace details of a by-yearly compatriot.  His opulent, absorbing eyes scrutinized everything placidly; with, if nothing else, a look of child-like intrigue beaming through his thick-rimmed circular spectacles, deep into the unfamiliar intricacies of others amusements.

“So, Philip, are you still doing your A-Levels?”

Ah yes, an excellent serve from the experienced cousin.

“Yes, unfortunately… Ha. Ha. I’m in my final year now”

I deflected the orthodox enquiry with what I felt was a successful balance of offhandness and formality, as I would continue to do so with various other obligatory characters until the seemingly elusive catharsis in proceedings arrived.

“Tea? More Tea?”

No, thank you. Is there any tea left? Anywhere? There is? I am surprised.

“Yes, nothing is particularly clear. We are an Imperial-Metric Britain-“

A mobile phone thrummed through a muffled pocket somewhere in the offing. A man, an extraordinarily ordinary man, with no distinguishing features, except a noticeably gaunt and wilting expression permanently plastered across his face. This man; a relative of mine… I couldn’t tell you his name, pulled the vibrating device from his fully zipped jacket, and answered.

“Yes, Hullo? Yes… Of course-“

It turned out the man was a policeman, a moderately high profile detective in fact. His faceless wife apologised to the eavesdroppers on behalf of her husband, as he began to speak in hushed voice to the unknown caller.

“Goodness… No. That’s terrible-“

The wife continued with her rhetoric; revealing that her partner was on call over the weekend, but is only required to ‘leave the house’ in the event of a fatality.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks.”

The man’s face turned a stony grey. Everybody was watching with seething intent. Everybody wanted to know – had this man been handed, by some divine intervention perhaps, a guilt free ticket to walk away in justifiable haste, from a family gathering?

“Tea? More Tea?”

No! Bugger off!

That woman had re-emerged, and with such faultlessly infuriating timing… This only seemed to exacerbate her irritating demeanour. Meanwhile, the man tucked his leather-cased phone back into his casual brown jacket, glanced to his wife and half whispered; ‘We have to go’, before jovially announcing to the procession that it appeared “some bloke’s gone and murdered his Mrs” and he must attend immediately.

“- although another one I was on, I was stuck next to the biggest bloke I’ve ever seen!”

An irrelevant splinter of conversation filtered through from across the room.

“To make things worse he was in the middle seat. Great swathes of fat tumbling over the armrest… He must’ve been carrying twice his own baggage allowance in his own gut!”

I paid no attention – I was engrossed in the immensely secret, yet underwhelming manner of the policeman.

“A murder! How exciting!” A lady (possibly straight from the set of Midsomer Murders) gasped from the rafters, turning to her fellow gossip-mongers with more than a hint of artificiality. After a few fleeting goodbyes; muttered apologies and an insincere assortment of ‘nice to see you’-s, the man, his wife and two children fled the compulsions of the afternoon.

Whilst still, I remained in the mint green armchair.

Tax-22.

Hello, Unknown Reader.

Being a tender, vulnerable Eighteen year old A-level student, I should be allowed to earn something in the region of £6,000 a year without being cold bloodedly swindled by the intangibly demonic 'tax man'. Rather unfortunately, this is not the case. I have been stripped of several hard earned gold coins in the last few months, which is irritating, but being a Gold Medallist in the strict discipline of Procrastination, I sort of decided to forget about it. This lackadaisical attitude towards my own earnings was not well received by my financially battle hardened parents, who spoke as if they have picked many a scrap with the T-Man himself, whoever he is. After several gentle, guiding comments encouraging me to take the necessary steps to re-obtain my stolen Tax treasures, I still remained steadfast in my well developed 'I'll do it later' philosophy. After many a heated discussion, it came to my mum sitting me down, thumping in the numbers for the Tax office herself:

0800 300 0627 - before thrusting the dialling phone to my ear which did not want.

Several minutes later, I found myself sat in the same position, phone to ear, listening to the monotonous drone of the robotic voice at the other end. I followed all the appropriate steps, tapping in '1's' and '2's' in accordance with the electronic bints' condescending enquiries. Half infuriatingly, at the end of the computerised monstrosities' ruthless interrogation, I was told to log on to the HMRC Tax Office website and follow the income tax reclaim steps there. I conformed. The website was the perfect visual accompaniment to the robots' rhetoric. Disgustingly logically presented, neither aesthetically pleasing nor displeasing - blindingly mundane. The centre piece of the Homepage however, was a delightfully playful picture of Moira Stewart leaning against a postbox. I easily located the links to the areas of the site I had been trustingly lead to. Once there, I was both horrified and perplexed by the advice offered to me.

"to reclaim overpaid tax please contact HMRC on 0845 300 0627" 


So, I am aware I have already dialled this number, followed the appropriate steps, and been led to the Tax Robot's website as a result of this. The website, appears to want to redirect me back to repeat the terribly artificial encounter with the Tax Offices' resident female robot. Please correct me if I am mistaken, but this does present itself as some form of contradiction: a paradox, a never ending maze at the centre of which lies all the wrongly seized monies of the general population.

This is your...Facebook.

Facebook frightens me. Despite its friendly exterior, dressed in friendly blues and whites, decorated with pictures and conversations, a dark truth has yet to be explored in the youthful stage of the Facebook generation. After all, Facebook is effectively an incredibly detailed, illustrated diary of your life, depending on how thoroughly you maintain your Facebook. In fact, Facebook is more than a diary, it is a documentation, an ongoing, seemingly ceaseless record of the minutiae of yours, mine, almost everybody's lives. 

This thought may not strike you as anything ground breaking. You may cast a slovenly eye across your Facebook page now in fact, and think nothing of it. You may have a few hundred pictures which you've been 'tagged' in, dating back maybe three or four years. But what about in fifty years time? How will your Facebook look then? Imagine yourself on your deathbed, scrolling through your Facebook; your whole life will be right in front of your eyes. Conversations, thoughts, photos, videos, chat conversations...All logged, stored, saved, documented.

What a horrific thought. I'm not entirely sure how comfortable I feel with the entire substance of my life being reduced down to storage on a voyeuristic spy-haven for lonely old men and sexually inquisitive fourteen year old boys. Will we be judged by our Facebook record in years to come? Who knows. Part of me feels I should keep Facebooking away, wasting hours of my time clocking every seemingly worthwhile thought or conversation on the damned website, just to see.