My Obsession

Some people may have a compulsion to drink excessively, or become addicted to tattoos, or hoard milk bottle tops. The obsession I have developed is hidden in an overflowing drawer, its actual extent unbeknownst except for me. And, this was really highlighted when I decided to take action.

I collect funky socks.

In later years of primary school, I noticed my cousin wore the coolest socks, adorned with little characters and squiggly hatchings and vibrant colours. After I had commented on them, I received some for my birthday, then Christmas, then for more birthdays and more Christmases, all the while buying pairs I saw while out shopping myself. Soon, the bottom drawer of my cabinet could not be physically shut, until you pushed all the socks as far back as you could: it was as if they were attempting an escape, trying to be noticed enough to be worn that day, so they could feel the texture of the floor and be laced into shoes.

Most days if I wear trousers to school, someone will comment on my socks (or ask to see them). And, this is in no way an arrogance: it is simply because they are so bright, or swarming with little stitched animals that your eyes cannot help but be hypnotised by them. Bee socks, cow socks, Christmas socks, popcorn pop socks, neon pink socks, little frilly-edged socks, stripy socks, spotty socks. There is no place for boring off-white foot-slugs, accompanied with the little toe poking out. Basically, if you need a pair of socks to match your outfit, I can sort you out like a dodgy dealer with a rainbow of pocket-watches on the inside of their coat.

I have even converted others to never wanting to touch their over-washed black socks again: my Nanny was ecstatic with her (compatibly muted, but still patterned and acceptably funky) socks we bought her last year, and she admitted that selecting a pair for an outfit has never been so fun.

I actually did not realise just how many of these little rays of sunshine I owned until I decided to have a ‘sock purge’ last weekend. (Admittedly, this was because I wanted to buy some more and I was actually struggling to shut the sock drawer at this point.) I pulled them all out into a massive pile and began trawling through those with worn-away patches, bobbly toes and a crispy texture from being washed a little too much.

I managed to discard forty pairs of socks. Forty.

And I still own what most people would describe as too many!

My mum even bought me a drawer divider, so I could organise my ‘keeping pile’ into identifiable categories: no more hunting through a jungle of psychedelic colours and odd socks.

This mild obsession is not dangerous to my health (unless I fell into the drawer and suffocated under the socks’ weight) and, in fact, most of them have been presents: last Christmas, I received eight new pairs from family and friends (you know me too well). However, I have come to the conclusion that I will continue my pursuit to find the funkiest, coolest, loudest socks the shops have to offer: they actually make me feel happier, looking down at the sausage dogs in berets and jumpers, running around plum cotton. Also, they make others smile: one look at the slightly stretched pug face poking out from under my jeans almost always brings about a small commotion of happiness. And because of this, I think we all need a few funky socks in our lives.