It’s one of those things that has always annoyed me. Odd socks. If the sock drawer if not continually managed, chaos infiltrates the ranks, the pairs vanish and and odd socks rule the drawer. Every morning I spend a frustrating few minutes fishing around blindly hoping to land a surviving pair from the depths. Add a 33lb pregnancy suit into the equation and a week of sleepless nights and this frustration escalates into full blown sock rage where I want to put my fist through the wardrobe and strangle ever last one of them. Until this morning that is. Today I saw those little fellas differently, literally. Why should there be just one partner for every sock? What if pairing wasn’t discriminated by colour, pattern or size? Every sock would have endless possibilities of pairing. Society may implode into rioting and mayhem, but there would be happier sock drawers across the world. Today it was a risk I was willing to take. As I waddle out-of-breath and sweating to work with a black and grey Burlington on my left foot and a blue and yellowed toed M&S on the right, I find myself pondering whether I’ve just lost all sense of vanity. Or dignity.