Like so much in life, there's not, superficially, much to say about socks. They, by and large - and not wishing to denigrate their designers or manufacturers - simply
are. We notice them only when
there's something not quite right about them, something that makes them stand out, something that takes us out of our comfort zone, and into a state of alertness, like wearing a watch on the wrong hand.
Mine, as you might now expect, have been bothering me lately - but in a way that only socks can.
It's not that they are uncomfortable; far from it. From experiences both good and bad throughout my sock-buying life I know what I want and have settled on one main source: whenever I'm back in the UK, I stock up on socks from Next. I know that they fit, they're decent quality and - well, they just work.
So, what does a sock have to do to work? Well, first and foremost, a sock can't work unless it's one of a pair. Certainly, odd socks can be and often are worn, but that function if they are both of the same make and if the wearer is either oblivious to the fact or is being aggressively contrarian. A business sock and single cotton, knee-length Bavarian Lederhosen sock would be so wrong that the combination wouldn't make it out of the bedroom door, or the wearer is an artist. But one brown sock and one black sock? It happens. If one of a pair has a hole in it, that pair becomes separated into two individual socks - the pair is dissipated and both will be thrown away sooner rather than later. I've tried darned socks, and they're awful, the new threading putting a strange pressure on the pampered, sensitive balls of my feet: fortunately I'm not poor enough that putting up with them is a necessity.
I've tried cheaper socks that felt like cotton shopping bags - something designed for carrying potatoes rather covering feet. I also own an expensive pair of Sealskinz waterproof foot coverings (I daren't bless them with the honourable title of sock) which are so uncomfortable, they feel like a Lenten penance rather than a sporting luxury. Wet feet are more comfortable than that. They seemed a good internet purchase at the time. And most "technical" fabrics simply don't belong on feet. Some may make the promise of "wicking" sweat and all of that - but there's nothing better than cotton for me. So the precise form of a sock, the material selection and the quality of the stitching are all key.
And socks have to look good.
What is a good-looking sock? Fortunately, there is no single answer to that question. Some people can get away with massively contrasting socks, like a combination I recall seeing at the Paris Motor Show in September: blue socks against pink trousers - I think it worked brilliantly, though it's not even remotely my style. Others go for the traditional Burlington diamonds, but I find that too fussy.
No, for me it's about a single, muted colour that can theoretically work with any combination of clothes I might happen to have thrown on in the morning. The problem with socks as part of the early morning on-throwing is that, as I mentioned, for them to function properly there have to be two of them.
For the vast majority of socks that I have owned, this has not been a problem. Socks are normally symmetrical, so on they go without any further mental effort on my part. But now more often than not, socks have logos on them and
that, finally, is what has been bothering me.
The problem with these logos is that I know that they they are there to be displayed - either as a vaguely personal statement of sartorial individuality or of sartorial belonging to a particular tribe; in either case, they are, as any logo is, also a form of advertising.
So, logos are there to be displayed and to be seen, meaning they should be worn on the outside of the ankle where, when you're sat with one leg crossed over the other and the trousers have rucked up to the top of the sock, others can glance at said logo and appreciate it for whatever symbol that is.
The thing about these logos is, though, that they are nearly always sewn on one side of the sock only. And, appreciating the necessity of displaying the logo, one sock always has to go on one dedicated foot, every time.
Everybody applies the pressures of footfall to particular areas on the foot, in their own way, but usually it starts with the balls of the feet. With the socks now dedicated to one foot each, it means that these socks are no longer being eroded on the "inside" or the "outside" of the sole at random times, like flipping a coin - no, they are being pressed and rubbed and squashed at the same point each and every time, meaning that one of these socks is going to wear out more quickly.
I have no idea if the rate of erosion to a hole is significantly greater with a foot-dedicated sock than for randomly applied socks, but the theory holds, and that's been bugging me of late.
Am I man enough, then, to throw the shackles of logo duress? Or shall I go meekly back to buy the next pair of replacements, and the ones after that? You know, I think I will - it's a small price to pay for the comfort of conformity...
