The Tao of Socks

“It is in seeking ourselves

That we find togetherness”

The audience Oooh’d! and Ahhh’d! at each pronouncement. They knew their meditations had brought them so far, but felt that the words of their teacher and prophet were beyond their comprehension.

“And in the acquisition of precedence

There is loss...”

There was a cough from the back.

“Yes?” the master, eager to appear equanimous in the face of all questioning, tilted to listen.

“Is there a meaning behind the contradictions?”

“Ah, yes indeed. Just as there is left and right, so there are two sides to all things. And they are all the same.”

“Yes, but can we find true happiness if we are not all the same? I mean, should we not all be polyester mixes or pure cottons? Surely we cannot mix like this forever.”

“I see.” The grandmaster, one of the most threadbare amongst them, kept for sentimental reasons rather than any practicality, prepared his response. “The truth is that we are all polyester mix, and we are all pure cotton.”

There was a stunned silence from the assembled draw. What manner of strange wisdom was this? It transpired the conventions of sockdom. All knew that like went with like. Polyester mixes were all well and good, but the ‘cotts’ knew that to be paired with a ‘poly’ was to court disaster, and vice versa: it was said the two had been tried in ancient times, but it was known polys always thinned quicker than cotts, but were lighter in the summer. In this way they were forever divided.

“There is an old story of two pairs who were very happy and friendly together. They made it through many-a spin-cycle without one of them being… ‘lost’.” At this last word there was a murmur of horror – the last thing any of them wanted was for one of a pair to be separated. For it meant certain death: at best a removal to the ‘odd sock’ draw, at worst an instant disposal execution in the bin. Being ‘lost’ was a thing too shocking to mention.

“Then, the most dreadful thing occurred; one of the cottons disappeared. There was a dreadful scene later on after a prolonged search drew a blank. The remaining cotton wailed and sang the mournful lament, ‘May my threads unravel. May my elastic snap.’ But it was to no avail. The sock was now alone. The others tried to comfort, but that only made the poor lonesome soul sing the louder. Finally, one of the friendly poly pair unravelled itself and cuddled the poor cott. And it was in that way they were found.”

Another murmur went through the crowd: for one sock to unravel was bad enough, for it to join with another sort was a strange kind of inter-species union that was very much taboo.

The voice at the back of the drawer commented, “We have all heard this tale, but it is merely a legend – a myth that teaches us to keep to our kind and be happy in our union.”

“Yes, you are right. That is how it is commonly interpreted. But there is deeper wisdom in this tale. For the truth is this: where one sock is alone, it is to be pitied, but it is also to be kept as a full member of the community. No sock is better than another.”

There was a loud angry snapping of elastic hems. Everyone knew that the white off-coloured sports cotts were at the bottom, the patterned coloured polys and cotts were next, the black cotts sat a little further up the social ladder and the supremo silk socks lorded it over them all. And yet, here the master was telling them that their society was wrong. Was a sock revolution in order? Would anarchy reign, with socks doing their own thing, uniting willy-nilly and causing distress at the time or adornment?

The master quieted them down. “I hear your concerns. But I can speak as one who knows these things; for the story may be legendary, but it was not a myth. You see; I was the left left by my right!”

There was pandemonium – socks were jostling with each other left, right and centre of the drawer. In the confusion a pair fell out and landed amongst the underpants below. If what this aged sage was true, it amounted to a confession that socks could actually go it alone.

“Master, master, say it isn’t so!” came many voices.

“But it was so. They were very happy together – a cott and a poly. I saw it. And they were worn without prejudice! I was left – but was happy for them, for their happiness also made me wiser. They were taken on a relaxing out-of-season weekend break where, it was said, they rolled under the bed. Some say they remain there still – in a land of equal rights for all sock types, in a place where mixes and 100%s, patterned and one-colours can all mix freely and without contradictions. Some also say this marvellous realm has a holy name: Bognor Regis!”

“Bognor Regis!” They all repeated the name as a new holy mantra.

And in that way the new teaching was acquired. From then on, each sock looked out for another, regardless of yarn, stitch or hue. And they would listen contentedly as the aged philosopher pronounced the message of sock love, happiness and harmony. For as one they now desired a unity of sockdom through combination not only of lefts and rights, but also the desire for Bognor Regis.