The Last of the Blacksocks

THE END IS NIGH!

Please, save our souls. Or at least socks.

Today is the last day of the black socks. They have been diminishing in quantity recently, threatened by the somewhat more resplendent and determined greater-spotted crested sock; and as of today they will finally be extinct.

Allow me to explain. Ever since I hit the age of man (around sixteen) and started buying my own socks I have been a black sock man. The idea was very sensible. I am a chap of extraordinary proportions. They seem even more exaggerated in the lengthiness of my legs. Ridiculously so. Despite the wearing of a decent, ankle-heighted boot, such as the traditional Chelsea; and trousers as long as can be bought without someone else having to go short(s), my socks make a regular appearance.

When I bought my first socks... let us take a moment... there. When I bought my first socks I was somewhat considerably more shy, so opted for black. But not just any black. These socks had a vital, hidden excitement: coloured toes and heels. Everyone may think that I was very plain and boring, but underneath it all, I knew I was exciting, I knew I was fun, I had coloured toes! And to make it even more exciting - if it is even possible - I didn't even put the same colours on! Fun and random! And no-one knew! Intentionally odd socks, yet always from the same series  of socks.

When I grew up and got a job my choice of substatially black became even more a sensible choice. They suited my suits on the occasions of their appearance to the world at large. Very good. And I obviously still knew I was fun.

But it never quite felt right to me. I felt constrained by society, unable to express myself and ashamed that I had such a huge hidden secret. Not that there are many other types of secret. I wanted to be me, to go out into the street and shout 'I am what I am! I have needs, cravings that simply cannot be satisfied by one of six combinations of red, blue and green.'

I tried. Really I did. I allowed myself slight variances: coloured blocks on the sole instead of the toes-and-heels; thin, coloured bands around the top of the sock; but it was no good: I was deeply unsatisfied and I was living a lie. I was not a black sock man. I needed something more. And worse still, by introducing the subtle variances I had actually stoked the flames. I had some more choice but now I needed more. And I knew there were other socks out there that could satisfy me.

I used to talk to a train fitty once upon a time. We used to get on very well and even got to th e stage where we started going for drinks. On one of these occasions we discussed socks: a very important conversation to have early on in any relationship, lest you should realise that you are incompatible. The last thing you want is to find out one of you is a baller and the other isn't; but to only find out when you commit to moving in together. And so it was then that my eyes were opened to the idea of stripey socks. Stripes: I had neve rv thought of this before. I had presumed I woul a have to be an 'all or nothing' chap. But stripes could be subtle - let me dip my toe in the water, as it were.

Well, that was the seed sown. There was a release from my frustrations on the horizon. And not just that but a release which would satisfy us both, draw me closer to the object of my affections, endear me further to that delicious train fitty and show I was acting directly on advice.

And so it was that weekend I set off into town on my illicit mission. I knew what I wanted and I wanted - nay, needed it - now. I knew where I was going for it. I was going to get some decent stuff first time, not just any socks off a street corner, or the market, but some nice, decent high-street lines.

There really is nothing quite like it: slipping in for the first time, in the comfort of your own home after a quick shower and pumice. Lovely. And the colours: they were phenomenal; and so much more than just red, green and blue. There was yellow. Orange. Turquoise even. How had I missed all of this in ny strait-jacket of smart resepctability?

And so, with gay abandon, I proudly flaunted my new socks on the train on Monday. And I couldn't stop smiling and giggling all day. I felt great!

And, of course, that was the start of the downhill path I now find myself towards the end of. Stripes weren't enough. The colours had to be brighter, more vivid, more contrasting. They could be plain, checked, different heels, toes AND tops. All the socks in the world couldn't satisfy me.

But that was the end for the blacks. Not that I have anything against them. But it was now for the digital switchover, and 'blacks' were out and 'coloureds' in. They had had a good life, and the transition has been gradual as each pair has worn out, but now is the last and tomorrow they will be no more (it is also bin day tomorrow, just to make a clean break). And so it is the end of an era, or maybe the start of a mid-life crisis. Maybe I should buy some flowers?

And yes, it does make me giggle how close 'our souls' is to 'arseholes'.