8490/21409
My wife Catherine Joy Wilkins has sent a message via her lawyers to say that accusations that she consistently or ever stacks the dishwasher incorrectly are both libellous and super-libellous and also not true.
I will allow you to decide if this is the kind of gaslighting that would come before an attempt to posthumously discredit a man who has dedicated his life to dishwashers and come terrifyingly close to losing an eye in one.
Her lawyers say that suggestion is also libellous and that I should thank my lucky stars that a woman of such fine character and ability to load a dishwasher, were she ever given the chance, has any interest in me whatsoever. And that I should be honoured to have me discredit me after my death in any case.
I would like to publish a full and frank apology for any impertinent suggestions I may have made, my only defence being that I forget people can read this very private diary somehow.
A sad day for me, as I pulled on a pair of my favourite socks and felt them ripping just below the top elasticy bit. They were on my feet and I didn't take them off, but I was aware that the damage was so great that this would be the last time I could wear them. I let them have one more run out in the world before I said goodbye.
I knew these socks days were numbered as they had quite a few areas of wear and some little hole in them, but there was no pretending that they could bounce back from this. It's not the 1950s. I don't have an old woman with a sewing machine to give my underwear almost infinite life. Once your bollock(s) are dangling out the bottom of your Y-Fronts and your socks are more hole than sock, then it's time to have a funeral for your smalls and move on.
The socks went in the kitchen bin and I thanked them for their service.
I feel like this particular pair of socks has been with me for an unusually long time. I can't be sure when I bought them, but I would be sure it was when I lived in London (so that's at least 9 years) and my guess would be that they're at least double that age. My relationship with these socks might be longer than the relationship with my wife (have I mentioned how wonderful she is - even if she died like my socks have, I wouldn't put her in the bin). It's possible that I am misremembering and I just had an older pair of socks that looked like this (I am pretty certain my wife has been the same woman throughout), but I don't think so.
Sometimes a pair of socks can end up at the back of the sock drawer and have its life artificially extended, but these guys have nearly always been in rotation. It's amazing they have lasted this long. I am sad to see them go.
I told Catie about the socks and she seem non-plussed, almost like she was wondering what had first attracted her to this man who would wilfully lie about her loading the dishwasher wrong and care more about his socks than he seems to about his own children.
I think I might be lucky to even be put in a bin when I go.
But for now, let's all raise a glass to my green and blue spotted Paul Smith socks. They did a good job for over a decade and never complained once, even though my feet are absolutely fucking disgusting.
What is it that makes some underwear last weeks and some last decades? Why do we have affection for some of our pants and disdain for others? Perhaps philosophers might like to stop working out the meaning of life and move on to these more important questions.
