We’re having building work done at the moment, which means our home is even more of a muddle than usual. Our (new) oatmeal carpets have blackish edges, there are smear marks on the walls and our belongings are strewn around each room. The wrong room; nothing is in its right place.
Which is why I found myself stepping over a number of tiny socks this morning on my way across my bedroom. Stripey ones, flowery ones, ones with printed with tiny, pink mary janes and ones with little grippy paw prints on the bottom. Which in turn got me thinking.
Now I pull a pair out of the ‘socks and tights drawer’ (as I tell my husband it’s called each time he tries to sneak a sleep suit or long-sleeved vest in) without thinking about it. But there was a time that my search for the perfect pair took me across west London.