I once considered myself a know-it-all that preached “men’s and women’s socks” was a marketing scam, identical tube of stretchy cotton casted differently but marketed otherwise, please stop overthinking socks.…
I measured my wrist four times last Tuesday evening using a cloth tape measure from one of those sewing kits I definitely didn’t order, scribbled each figure on a Post-it…
Six pairs of socks I can comfortably wear are currently sat at the back of my drawer, unused, bunched into horrible balls of deep nylon sadness because they ended halfway…
Someone in the club shop once told me unprompted “men’s medium covers six to eleven mate, you literally can’t go wrong.” I smiled, thanked him politely and thought nope way…
Dad reckons that sock sizing used to be straightforward. “Small, medium, large, job done”, he complained at Christmas last year, waving one of my new socks around like a smoking…
My workmate rolls his up like fatty twat (size 3XL feet, basically), balls his socks into a fist sized chunk and chuck it in a drawer like some sort of…
On one side of this debate, the most far I’ve heard someone lean was a guy in a messenger chat who basically said, “socks are socks, it’s all marketing, buy…
For fifteen years I bought socks like I buy batteries. Number on front matches vaguely with shoe size goes into trolley, job done, onto the next thing. Never even occurred…
Last winter there was a lad on the tram who looked like he’d been wrapped up in someone’s leftovers; a crochet scarf wound round his neck four times, ends tucked…
I found myself staring at two identical caps in a shop in Sheffield four years ago (one from the mens rail, one from the womens) trying to decide which one…