My father always washed his own socks. He believed they were a private matter, and it would be mortifying for my mother if she had to handle them. He made sure his socks and underwear were pristine, attended to with care, a silent ritual of dignity.
Things worked differently in my own householdmy husband had not the slightest intention of washing his own socks. He shrugged off the idea of scrubbing anything by hand; to him, it was just stuff that anyone could toss into the washing machine and peg up on the line in the garden while the magpies looked on.
That was how life spun along, like the strange ticking of a grandfather clock in a haunted hallway. But one day, I missed the moment when my husbands drawer was stripped bare of clean socks. The blame drifted toward me like a fog rolling over the moors.
Of course, socks these days never got mended; its simpler to buy new ones with pounds spent on a whim. If I spotted socks riddled with great gaping holes during the laundry, I tossed them straight into the bin. It turned out there were barely any whole socks to speak of, just patchy survivors.
If the socks landed in the laundry basket, I argued, Id actually wash them. Im not prowling around the house, searching for socks tucked down armchairs or hiding in the estranged corners where the dust settles. Dirty things ought to find their way to the laundry basket!
Its your job, he retorted, to keep my clothes clean and ironed.
And just like that, the socks were declared my responsibility. No one had given me any decree or written command, yet my share of duties had morphed, invisible as a misty morning in Yorkshire, until suddenly I was the keeper of lost socks and the laundrys silent magic.
