In an earlier post, I suggested that the interior of women’s handbags constituted a kind of weird infinite space in which anything could be inserted, but from which relatively little could be withdrawn. I don’t resile from this conclusion; however, just to show that I’m not a complete sexist, let me tell you about another odd phenomenon in the space-time continuum.
Men’s socks.
The problem with my socks is that they go missing. Moreover, it seems to me that the problem of missing socks is a peculiarly male phenomenon: other blokes I have spoken to record similar experiences. Granted, maybe there are some women out there who also experience the problem of disappearing socks, but I suspect their numbers, in comparison to the male of the species, are miniscule.
Specifically, my socks go missing in the washing machine and/or the clothes dryer. Perhaps they even go missing in transit between the two. Either way, I always end up with fewer pairs of socks than I started with, and more odd socks than was previously the case.
The way I have it figured, men’s socks must be some strange variety of highly localized, mobile black hole. However, this particular black hole doesn’t consume the material universe – it consumes itself, winking out of the space-time continuum and leaving not even the echo of its own gravity behind. It just disappears. It’s as though the sock itself percolates through the fabric of space into another dimension altogether.
I’ve searched high and low for my missing socks. Behind cupboards and dressers; under chairs and couches; into nooks and crannies. God help me, I even explored the Stygian depths of my laundry basket looking for the blasted things (and if you knew what a disgusting experience that was, you’d appreciate the depths of my frustration). But no, nothing. Zip. Nada. Not a sausage. In fact, I’d probably have a better chance of finding sausages rather than my socks in all the places I’ve looked. They’ve just gone.
It seems to me there can only be three possibilities:
1. The centrifugal force of the washing machine creates a temporary wormhole (or, in the alternative, activates the socks’ black hole potential), causing them to slip through the space time continuum and thus vanish.
2. The action of the washing machine creates an electro-magnetic field between the clothes washer and the dryer, permeating the space between the two with a quantum warp that attracts socks and causes them to disappear.
3. The tumbling motion of the dryer produces a temporal-spatial flux that so intense it disturbs the molecular structure of the socks, and they dissipate into a thin haze of elementary particles.
Now, I know you’re thinking this all sounds highly improbable, but let me ask this: if it’s so far fetched, how come it’s only socks that disappear? How come my undies are always there where I left them? Why don’t my T-shirts go flitting off into quantum space? Why are my trousers so stolidly attached to this universe? I reckon it’s got something to do with the fact that socks come in pairs – it’s a matter, anti-matter thing. And since we live in a universe of matter, not anti-matter, one of the two socks must inevitably disappear…
Either that, or Rod Serling regularly visits my laundry when I’m not looking, turns to a TV audience occupying some undetectable dimension of space-time, and says: I offer for your consideration, two socks, one of whom is about to enter the Twilight Zone…
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Mix a little foolishness with your serious plans; it's lovely to be silly at the right moment. (Horace)
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