SOCK MANIFESTO

Sunday night. Mum watches Poldark while flicking through her collection of old embarrassing photographs. She flicks over to Vera. My Dad is doing a one-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, and I am swiping my dry clothes from the clothes-horse and folding them into neat piles.

I've come to a bit of a life decision. It's taken me a while to realise it, and it will certainly take me a while longer to put it into action. However, it could change everything for me, this moment, and I'm all for that, so long as it's a positive change.

I've decided to get all my socks to look the same.

Oh you know it makes sense. At the moment, my sock drawer is a multi-coloured swap-shop of singles and oddballs. I've got grey ones with a darker grey heel and toe, I've got black ones with blue thread, novelty Monty Python socks, sports socks, trainer socks, old socks with holes in, luminous socks (never going to wear them), threadbare white socks, socks I tried turning into puppets, walking socks, long socks, socks with L and R printed on them and socks which haven't seen a shoe or a foot this side of the twenty-first century.

It must be time to get rid of some old socks, mustn't it? And I'd like a world where all my socks are identical. That way, when it's washing day, I can grab a handful of socks from the laundry basket, throw them into the washing machine and then pair them up without having to worry about which goes with which. In fact, the maximum number of pairless singletons to squelch out of the washing machine will only ever be one - and he'll soon be matched up at the end of the next load. Lots of lovely socks, all the same. Perfect.

Another added bonus will be that it will no longer be possible to go out with odd socks on. I hate that - even if I'm hiding them away in shoes, there's an uncomfortable feeling, gnawing away at me all day that I'm somehow out of balance - especially if one sock is halfway up my shin and the other one is rolling underneath the other foot. Talk about off-kilter - it can ruin my day, that kind of thing. No, when all my socks are the same, it'll be an end to those skewiff days of discomfort.

And an end to those days when you have to wear ankle socks to work because you've run out of your normal ones! When I glance down at my bare ankles poking out between smart shoes and smart trousers, I feel a bit like a tramp who spent the night in Marks & Spencers and had to get dressed in just the few seconds available before the security guard came round to open up.

So, uniform socks it is then, is it? Boring? Predictable? Safe, comfortable! Function over fashion, simplicity over complexity, painless plainness over vexing variety, and crucially, no more missing socks on a Sunday night!

I shared my vision with the Intrepids while Vera wrapped up her case and my Dad turned the jigsaw box upside-down looking for a missing 'edge-piece'. My Mum, munching an After Eight, looked at me with that special kind of Mum-look that mums have. It's the kind of look that says, "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Well I bet Einstein didn't have to worry about matching up his socks!" I said, folding my arms.

"I don't think he wore socks at all," said my Dad, quite correctly.

Always one step ahead, that Einstein.