Sock story

Task for the week: write a story from the perspective of a sock being separated from its twin in the laundry.

My life to date has been a hard one. I have been walked all over, literally, and am showing my age – faded all over and threadbare in places. Yes, I get out a lot but I’m usually clad in a shoe of some sort. It’s dark, claustrophobic and, if I’m especially unlucky, smelly. Granted I get freshened up once a week but this involves a log wait in the laundry basket, worse than the shoe, and then a near-death experience in the machine of doom where I run the risk of getting tangled up and being unable to breathe. And that’s just before the detergent is released. Then it’s time to dodge the worst of the perfumed torrent, before of course, the dreaded spin cycle where I lose all sense of direction. As if that’s not enough punishment, I’m loaded in the tumble dryer and roasted for an hour. The only saving grace? At least I have a twin who goes through it all with me.

You can imagine my panic therefore when, on laundry day, I found myself alone. Nancy, my wearer, was running late and had grabbed her hoody straight out the dryer without giving it a shake to check for erroneous items, and put it straight on. I was stuck in the hood – socknapped it seemed. A jump from that height would have been impossible so I had to face up to time alone. As she headed outside into the sun, it quickly dawned on me that this could be my big moment – a chance to actually see the world, a sort of covert mission.