A Grey Sock and Turkmenistan

I had an unfortunate incident when registering my tutor group a few days ago, which I feel duty-bound to share with you, not least because it shows this writer at his most idiotic. It may have been caused by my getting dressed too quickly or in the dark, or perhaps just not having a proper methodology when it comes to protocols involving the separation of dirty clothes and clean clothes. I’m not sure how it happened, but happen it did.

So the tutor group are great but they are also kids, and naturally extremely enthusiastic about anything that makes their teacher seem stupid. Generally, it’s better as a teacher if you preserve some kind of dignity and conduct yourself with suitable decorum in front of your charges. On this particular morning I fell short of those ideals. Fortunately children are pretty gullible so no damage was done.

Pupils were seated in a U-shape - so round the edge of the room. A girl - I’m going to say euphemistically that it was one who might be especially keen on seeing her teacher embarrassed - saw something in the middle of the room.

“Sir, is that your sock?”

The other kids and I looked at the out of place item lying forlornly on the floor. It was indisputably a sock. I quickly realised that not only was it a sock - it was my sock. Now obviously it wasn’t one of the socks I was wearing, so where was it from? After a few seconds, with a mixture of horror and masochistic amusement I understood what had happened. It was a previous day’s sock, and what must have happened was that when I’d taken my trousers off the previous night (don’t get excited!), it had become lodged in the hem at the bottom of one of the legs. The wretched item could have dislodged itself at any time it chose to, but of course decided to wait for the most inappropriate moment to disgorge itself from its warm home

I decided that the best tactic was to be firm and decisive about the matter.

“That’s disgusting,” I said severely. “Does anyone know how that got there? I’ve been teaching for over twenty years and no pupil has ever left a sock in my classroom before. Come on - whose is it?”

Normally when you handle your own clothes, clean or dirty, you do it with an unaffected insouciance. I walked over to this sock as though it was my mortal enemy, picked it up with my thumb and forefinger as though it were contagious, and dropped it in the bin.

I turned and frowned at the class and informed them that I would overlook the matter on this occasion.

The thing was, they ‘bought‘ it! Thirty hardened school kids (I appreciate that the word ‘hardened’ is normally used as a prefix to the word ‘prisoners’ but I think it appropriate) left the room believing it wasn’t my sock. 

When I told Mrs. G. about this she shrieked with laughter. Nothing cheers her up more than a story that shows me at a disadvantage; it’s like the best serotonin ever. 

After she’d stopped laughing (so quite a while later) she reminded me that a similar thing had occurred a few years ago, but this time the offending article of clothing was a pair of boxer shorts. Again the ‘reveal’ was at an unfortunate time. We were living in our old house in Tunbridge Wells, and whilst there often had to deal with a couple of unpleasant neighbours concerning parking issues. 

Our house was one of eight which formed something called a ‘Commonhold’ whereby all eight owners owned a share of the land. It was a limited company and rotas for mowing, sweeping, bin cleaning and other back-breaking tasks were distributed. The chairmanship of this limited company was rotated; while most residents undertook the responsibility in a light-fingered manner with diligence and courtesy, the aforementioned unpleasant neighbours, used their chairmanship in a more autocratic way. Taking their inspiration from Stalin’s “My life as a Dictator” and Genghis Khan’s “How to Slay Friends and Influence People”, their high-handedness knew no bounds.

It had come to their attention that my motorbike wasn’t parked in an official parking space. Their eyesore of a boat was also parked (moored?) in a non-space, and I was just pointing this out to them in a fraught conversation on their doorstep when it came to my attention that my purple and black striped boxer shorts were residing contentedly on top of my right trainer. (Boxer shorts are often striped - goodness knows why.) It slightly undermined the point I was making, and the boat never got moved. (Nor did my motorbike, you’ll be pleased to hear.) 

Again, Mrs. Griffiths thought this was hilarious and would enthusiastically trot out the story at dinner parties. She would stop strangers on the street and tell them and I think she once told the Archbishop of Canterbury about it. I’m sure he laughed into his mitre!

The fact I’ve been guilty of this hiccup with my attire twice perhaps suggests I’m a little slapdash in my approach to life, lacking the meticulousness of my sister Clare, amongst others. I’d imagine anyone seeking or occupying high office would be unlikely to commit this sartorial indiscretion. I’ve never noticed King Charles strolling around with the kingly 'kecks' poking out of the sovereign slacks - indeed his last Christmas Day message was conspicuous for the lack of visible underwear around his regal person altogether. (I’m less sure about Prince Andrew…) Boris Johnson is the only leader past or present I can imagine making this mistake, which doesn’t reflect well on me really, I’m sure - I hope - you’ll agree!

My ‘smalls’ are certainly keener to leave my trousers than a lot of folk are to leave the Island. (It’s a tenuous link but still a link.) Mrs. Griffiths met a lady from the council the other day; something to do with work and careers. She explained that a lot of children are extremely reluctant to leave the Island. I’m sure many are enthusiastic about gaining a wider experience but there is a core for whom the idea of going to the Mainland, even briefly, is something of an anathema. 

I’ve also experienced this mindset. Often, children talk about the Mainland as though it’s Turkmenistan, the Democratic Republic of Congo or Birmingham, with menacing villains clutching bottles of poison gathered on the quay at Portsmouth ready to greet them. (To be clear, I’m not suggesting that Turkmenistan, the Democratic Republic of Congo or Birmingham are full of individuals cavorting around clutching bottles of poison; after all, Birmingham doesn’t have a quay.)

Self-evidently this is temporary, youthful ignorance and perhaps also a lack of confidence; these feelings won’t last. The ignorance the other way is more marked; only the other day one of Freya’s friends asked in all seriousness if there was a time difference. I suppose one could try to be funny and say: “yes - thirty years!”, but we’ve kind of established that this is a cliché.

It’s the water - the Solent in our case - that causes the ignorance, division and fear; it’s the same in terms of our slightly sceptical attitude towards France and Europe. It’s all psychological. Why would we think we’re different from people just because there’s a body of water between us? It seems to completely addle our collective brains.

It doesn't have to be like this; despite water between us, Mrs. Griffiths and I might have shared a hypothetical bath from time to time (again, calm down, readers), but we generally got on fine. Although come to think of it, we did used to fight regarding who had the tap end (hypothetically). “But Mrs. Griffiths, I've had the tap end the last 3 times”, I’d whine.

Also I didn’t like bubble bath but she did…….

So the water between the Mainland and the Isle of Wight is both physical and metaphorical.

Sadly, there was nothing metaphorical about the sock at the end of my trousers, and as I continue to unpick the former point,  I’m also going to do my best to ensure that there are no items of clothing lurking at the bottom of my trousers from now on!