My recent years being single weren’t the best times in my life. Preceded by a cruel double trauma that sent me nosediving into a deep depression hadn’t helped, hurling me into a world of suffocating gloom. When I think back on those times, I see a darkness that I have never before experienced; a seemingly endless, bitter cold and loneliness that the Covid lockdown had fed generously; a deep, uncompromising, unforgiving and completely enveloping blackness, forcing me into isolation and despair.
Nothing lasts forever…
In September 2021, a friend invited me to go paddle boarding with some friends of hers. I was on the verge of saying no, not wanting to intrude upon a group of people who I didn’t know, but something made me about turn and accept the invitation. I think that I was the only one who couldn’t stand up, providing an entertaining contribution to the day with my spectacular water entrances, but maybe also leaving an impression that I was completely unaware of at the time.
Melanie was much better at the art of staying dry. We became Facebook friends as a result of this day out at Llandegfedd Reservoir, and it didn’t take long for us to realise that we had a mutual interest. Using only our iPhones for photography, we began to appreciate each other’s social media posts. iPhone photography was something that I was becoming deeply involved in, having fallen over in Yosemite National Park in California a few years previously and broken my camera. Exploring the countryside whilst working away in mid-Wales during the summer, I began experimenting with iPhone techniques and playing around with unusual ideas. Melanie’s only camera was an iPhone, so we had many things to discuss and compare.
Mutually disguised as nothing more than a photographic expedition, keeping our minds open to other ideas, we headed off to Penarth beach on our first proper date (an impromptu riverside coffee a couple of days earlier cast doubt on whether or not it was our first or second date). It was a chilly November morning/afternoon, and I think it’s fair to say that we fell in love in our woolly hats, scarves and gloves whilst sitting and talking and philosophising on the pebbles. We took lots of interesting photos too, and shared editing ideas. We became inseparable after just a short period of time, and my days of being single were clearly coming to an end.
Living alone in a large three bedroom apartment, despite its downside, can enable you to indulge in certain luxuries. After being alone for some time, it can be a bit of a shock to have to rein in some of these, but you can’t live like a single man forever. I had a choice of two double bedrooms, depending on the time of the year (one is warmer than the other), more cupboard space than I could dream of, and never had to wait to use the bathroom. Despite the loneliness and depression, I was also living a life of vulgar excess. It was when Melanie asked me why I had two large sock drawers that this became strikingly obvious.
“Ah,” I said, “Well, it’s like this…”
And so I began to explain. I explained that the one with the fewer pairs of socks was, in fact, the “part-worn” sock drawer.
“The part-worn sock drawer?” she asked, inevitably.
“Yes.” So I helpfully explained more. “If I wear a pair of socks only for a few hours, in the evening for example, after changing out of my working day socks, it’s pointless putting them in the wash. I don’t sweat as much as most people and my feet rarely smell bad, so I can use them another time.”
It all made complete sense to me, even if Melanie did seem a little dumbstruck before launching into fits of laughter. Some of my socks were able to last twice as long between washes, without having a double impact on the environment and my electricity bills. So amused and intrigued by this, she carried out an unofficial survey amongst her friends and colleagues about the merits of a part-worn sock drawer. I’m led to believe that it is not a common thing (maybe, closer to being unheard of), but it has led to a considerable amount of entertainment at my expense.
Opening another drawer she eeked – “It’s a drawer of long things!” Anyone would have thought that its contents had hissed at her as she looked down at the open drawer filled with tangled belts and ties, all ready to slither out and and wrap themselves around her. I think she’s been watching too many horror movies. It’s all innocent and harmless stuff, and the behaviour of a shrewdly organised and resourceful, independent man. What qualities could be better in a prospective partner?
Living mostly at Melanie’s house now, with my apartment on the verge of being sold, I have claimed a drawer for my long things, but I have secretly had to find a little corner for some part-worn socks in my sock drawer. I simply don’t have enough drawers for the luxury of a dedicated part-worn sock drawer.
My socks don’t seem so convinced. Crammed into only a medium-sized drawer with little room to breathe, strange things have started to happen. I get the sense that they are beginning to feel abused. There are more and more odd socks appearing – or more to the point, more and more socks seeming to be without partners. Some are beginning to jump ship and end up in Melanie’s 17-year-old son’s possession. I even found, potentially embarrassingly, a pair of my previous day’s socks, fully-worn of course, in one of my working jacket pockets after emptying them when I came home recently. Imagine if this had been brought to the attention of my colleagues and clients! They are playing around and trying to cause trouble. Quite simply, my socks are revolting.
Nonetheless. I shall stand strong. They need to learn that some things change (not only socks), and life isn’t always about them. They are still well looked after, kept warm and worn regularly. I won’t be bullied by spoilt footwear with a spirit unbecoming of their station in life. There are not many socks in this world who have been able to experience the luxury of having a part-worn sock drawer at some stage during their lifetime, and so I feel no shame or guilt about ultimately having to downsize.
What really matters is that, twelve months on, they now have a happy master with more of a spring in his step to keep them on their toes.
MARK D PRITCHARD writes... 