There is a mysterious place in our bedroom; it’s right next to one of those mass-produced IKEA armchairs, that once upon a time was a non-offensive creamy colour, but is now hideously grotty-looking (which is, I suppose, the main reason we make sure it’s always well-covered with clothes). The mysterious place next to this chair attracts socks; dirty socks, dirty, smelly man-socks. Like a domestic
It’s a reliable source of argument between us. Between the owner of the smelly man-socks and I. Usually I turn a blind eye, but if my eye remains blind for too long he runs out of socks (I refuse to carry the filthy things to the laundry basket), and so we argue. In all fairness he never blames me when his sock stock is depleted, but it irritates me that he would rather be sock-less than fight the pull of the sock triangle.
Whilst my man is of the most chilled-out stock imaginable, I am prone to the occasional temper tantrum more often associated with a five year-old. This can, as I’m sure you all realise, lead to problems. Drama queens need a regular outlet, and this opportunity doesn’t present itself very often when you’re living with Mr Cool-As-A-Cucumber. So I’m starting to wonder whether the sock triangle is his own carefully-planned invention, created purely for my benefit. After all he’s not the sort of person to leave wet towels on the floor, nor does he leave the toilet seat up or wear the same underpants for five days straight. And the sock pile on the floor always looks curiously tidy.
I’m not sure whether this annoys me or not.