Socks are Bread

Two days back at work and what little enthusiasm that there was yesterday has now dried up like a Northern Irishman’s shower. Fortunately our systems went down so we could all end the pretence of actually doing some work and concentrate on “the big catch up”. How was Christmas? What did you do for New Years? Yes, didn’t we all eat ourselves to death and of course that new scarf, hat, jumper or necklace looks great. The chances are it doesn’t but what can you do? An office of myself and three middle-aged women is no place for honesty. What am I going to say? Spent the holidays drinking, eating more chocolate than Nigella on a self-loathing trip, playing video games and masturbating my way through a lonely New Year’s Eve, what about you?

We finally came on to a conversation of interest. What was the crappest Christmas present that you got? Now this may seem shallow since all, well most, gifts are given with thought and earnest good will. But somehow, each year, someone we know will just get it wrong. In our office one woman was given a notebook, address book and diary without dates written in which was immediately issued to her 4 year old to doodle in at her whim. I must admit this colleague isn’t the sharpest tool in the box (she has the cutting precision of a ladle in fact) so she may well be surprised in time that the notebook has dates on each page. Still I want to put forward a contender for crappest Christmas present and it was a controversial one in the office at least. Socks.

My Aunt is an incredibly generous soul. A quirky character but an old school matriarchal one, albeit without children of her own. But I need to stress I’m not talking the mandatory Christmas socks that are a necessity during the yuletide period. I’m talking black sports socks. I am a fully grown adult. No matter how hard I try to ignore the fact or act otherwise I have reached a level of self sustainability that means I can fend for myself. This, novelty additions aside, means that socks are for all intent and purpose bread. When I need bread I can buy bread. When I need socks I can buy socks.



Surely better than socks

Socks didn’t win the debate in the office. In fact neither did the books. That prize was taken, without the owner’s knowledge, by a luminous green plastic hedgehog thing from a local art gallery (pictured) that we have since found out is a cheese grater! But, ever the sore loser, I’d just make a plea to anyone that whenever you are looking for a treat or gift for that someone special, before making the purchase, remember. Socks are bread.