Janet Christie: No-one wants socks for Christmas – do they?

Mum's the Word

“Yeah, everyone hates getting socks for Christmas,” a twentysomething friend is telling me when I mention the S-word and presents.

“Except I asked my boyfriend for some nice fluffy ones this year,” she continues. “It’s the sort of thing your granny used to get you and it would be a bit ‘aw…’ but as you get older you realise you don’t like spending money on socks, so it would be nice if people bought you some.”

Vindicated. I knew it. So socks are back on the Christmas list, not least because twice this week mine have been stolen by the very ingrate offspring who told me NEVER to buy them any. (Apart from Eldest who is of an age and temperament to respond correctly with: “Mum, anything you buy me is great, and I like socks, and jumpers too,” sending him sprinting stocking soled up the Favourite Child leader board).

First with the sock stealing was Middle, whose residence on the sofa means I get a daily view of his soles, heels and toes, poking through socks apparently repeated blasted by grapeshot since I gifted them one distant Christmas back before the ban.

“Ma, can I borrow your socks please?” he says.

“No, your feet are seven sizes bigger than mine. You will kill them. Oh, OK. You might be in an accident.”

Next up is Youngest, who “hates” my “funny socks” that “go up over your ankles, even your knees, lol. Like cardigans for feet… ha, ha, ha.” (Cardigans being another derided item she borrows and ruins by tying in seam-straining knots up under her bust as an emergency “cute” crop top).

“Can I borrow a pair please?” she says.

“No. Because when I said your socks look like you run around the park without trainers on and I have to boil wash them, you said yes, that’s exactly what you do so your trainers don’t get dirty. Oh, all right then.”

So Christmas socks are bought, the bag deposited on the sofa while I nip out again. On my return it’s disappeared so I just assume I’m losing it until Middle appears next day.

“Yo Ma. Thanks for the socks, they’re smashing, brand new!,” he says.

“Yes, they were.”

“You didn’t need to buy me some. That was nice,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

“Well, they were meant to be for…”

“But don’t go getting me some for Christmas. I don’t need any.”

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