Socked off

24 Jan

I have a game. It’s called find the pair of socks. It’s simple really, and there’s no board, ‘pass go’ sign or fiddly miniature counters to lose. I actually pay people to play my game. Our 10-year-old gets 50p for finding 5 pairs, which may sound quite a lot, but I’ve been looking for a pair all day and I’ve yet to strike it lucky. In fact, I’ve given up playing altogether because I’m just not in the mood.

When you look at the trail of evidence of what some would call my ‘serious mental health issues’ it begins on the landing, currently scattered with odd socks – and ends in the kitchen where a Petit Filous smeared bottle of Disaronno sits neatly next to a heap of paperwork that is now a permanent installation that the cleaner dusts. I won’t be dealing with any of this today. I will merely be looking at it in the same way that I look at the socks, and the ashes in the fire grate, and my hair. I’ll deal with it tomorrow, because it will all still be there, with the only difference being the way I feel.

I’d like to be the voice of knowledge and reason and say that it is sensible to keep on top of everything all the time, for the sake of good mental health. But actually, I find this totally impossible and the very idea sends me swimming aimlessly in a sea of murk. To avoid this, I view ‘doing things’ in the same way as eating things. There are days when I eat certain foods because I must: for me, hangovers are best treated with two slices of thick flabby white bread pressed up against some salty butter and equally salty bacon. Two minutes to prepare and a cure that lasts the day. Other times call for leisurely stints in the kitchen, concocting dishes fit for gods. The chopping, stirring and clearing away is time heavy, but sometimes it’s ok. If I’m in the mood for slow food and find the idea of slicing vegetables comforting and soothing, instead of a bloody fucking nightmare that has ruined the chance of dinner before midnight (at times when I am not in the mood but push on anyway), I go for it.

Today is definitely an odd socks day, because pairing and doing anything remotely organisational will not happen. A song I can really relate to, made even better by the fact that David Byrne sings it in such a laconic manner, is “Lazy.”  I should really have a remote control toy truck to bring things to and from the kitchen. This is of course a transient state, brought on by a temporary lapse of good health. I felt better for a few day last week, but went to the doctor today when I woke with a sore throat and aching joints.  He confirmed my thoughts when he checked my throat and held the cold stethoscope close to my chest. “You’re actually still ill.”

I had to relay this interesting piece of dialogue back to my husband, because he is of the school of thought that says if the doctor says you’re fine, everything is ok and you can’t possibly feel ropy or complain.

After my thrilling visit to the doctor, and a prescription for sympathy and understanding from my family, I asked my husband if he would kindly fetch me the pack of Minstrels that I didn’t finish while watching Shame at the weekend. It was in the cinema that I began to feel ill again. The lingering shots (the director is a fan of women) of Michael Fassbender’s cock should have made me feel better, but alas, even his thinly disguised hard-on couldn’t keep the sick gremlins at bay.

As you can see, I’m digressing. Which is really part of the story that constitutes the whole of my day. I’ve done nothing apart from stare at my socks and look blankly at the stack of bills and school newsletters and quite important documents that really should be filed away immediately. I’ve even attempted to listen to World at One, but only visual information and flashbacks of a naked Fassbender fill my head. Nothing is going to happen today. I am in a very resistant mood.

Resistant to Nurofen (I’ve taken 6 since this morning and I still feel shit), good advice (I’m wearing cotton socks, not my slippers because even the Tesco delivery boy shouldn’t be subjected to such filth) and anything that involves a modicum of effort.

Tomorrow you’ll find me cantering up and down the stairs tidying away all the things that once had a place but have since become homeless (due to being left out and not put back), heading out to see the Grayson Perry exhibition at the  British Museum before it gets dismantled, and making important calls to Lambeth about our crumbling garden wall that should have been fixed way back in June. I’ll be a temple of productivity, if I feel better.

But until then any attempt is futile. I say this with the knowledge that when the time is right, I excel at getting things done. But for now, the doctor says I’m ill, and according to my husband, whatever the jolly man with the whiskey and fag breath says goes, so I better get back under the duvet.


One Response to “Socked off”

  1. wifeyhooper January 24, 2012 at 7:41 pm #

    We need to get together with our odd sock collection I have millions mainly black but of different sizes, I’m sure alcohol could make it more exciting

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