Matching socks

I don’t know why, but when my feet got cold this afternoon, it became hugely important to find matching socks.  This was no easy task but, after 40 odd years of never giving a hoot about socks, the little buggars had to match. How weird is that?

It was so strangely important, I started to attach magical outcomes to the achievement of finding a pair.

I will get the work slave that I realised yesterday I want.
My crappy assignment will finish itself.
LB will go off drum and bass…

I hunted through the odd sock basket. Hunt, hunt, hunty-hunt.

At last. I got a pair. A pink, mauve and lime green combo (bottom left, second sock out of pic). Fab. I put em on with pride, and went to put the kettle on.

“Whatthefuckingshiteballs???” I shrieked, as I walked in a pool of water. “Where’s this water from?”  LB, who was glued to youtube looked up. “Dog bowl, Mum”, he answered.  I did a bit more swearing and went to change my socks to odd ones (hoping the magical outcomes counted because I had actually found a matching pair). ‘I am so over matching socks’, I thought to myself, as I went back to fill the kettle.

As I stood at the sink with the tap on, a load of water gushed out over my feet.  The pipe under the sink had become detached.

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