Odd Socks.

It was Douglas Adams who postulated that there is a planet somewhere, where all the missing biros in the galaxy gather. I, on the other hand envisage a planet, possibly in an alternative universe, to where every left sock from Earth eventually migrates. It is all part of a sinister plot.
 
I buy socks in pairs, I start wearing socks in pairs, in the fullness of time – I remove them in pairs and put them in the wash - in pairs. Sooner or later, the left sock will fail to come out of the washing machine and insinuate itself through the fluff filter, on down to the sewage treatment plant in The Glen, and thence into a wormhole that delivers it safely to its retirement home. Meanwhile, its lonely partner is unceremoniously deposited in a carrier bag in the sock drawer and is only allowed out on those special occasions when I run out of pairs of socks and have to resort to wearing two unmatched right socks.
 
As an aside, I remember reading Douglas Bader’s biography many years ago, and being amused by the great man’s reaction on first removing his shoes after being fitted with tin legs. When one removes ones legs each night before climbing into bed, there is no actual need to take one’s shoes off until they need either repairing or replacing so, when he eventually did remove them, he found that his socks had no feet, they had simply worn away leaving just their upper portions around his lower legs.