The Language of Socks

One of my earliest memories was of sitting on a bench in a rectory as my Uncle carried on quiet conversation with our parish priest.

We had taken off our shoes when we entered the small room and I was painfully knowledgeable that my socks were soiled. I awkwardly tried to avoid drawing attention to my little self, thinking that it was somehow enormously wrong to have dirty socks in this of all places.

I struggled to tuck my feet as far underneath the bench as my little body would enable so that Father wouldn't see my feet.

Somehow, at four years of age in a world that was occupied largely by imaginary friends and memorizing the colours in my crayon box, I was intensely aware that my soles needed cleansing.