In 1965 my Junior School changed the names of its houses. I was in one of four new houses, named after former Heads. Mine was called Leigh. Each house had different colours and I got a new games kit. My socks were at least two sizes too big as my mother invested in me growing by making me uncomfortable at both ends of the cycle. The socks were yellow.
They were stretchy once but mainly wool. Hard-wearing doesn't begin to describe these babies. They are probably a better bet than the stuff we use to make aircraft black boxes. You could shelter behind them in a nuclear winter.
Since 1965 they have been walking socks, sports socks, gardening socks and even early-morning-with-no-shoes socks.
Until yesterday. Returning from a wet walk I realised my toe was protruding. One sock deceased.
I had two pairs so I have three socks left, one with a bit of a rub in the heel that may go next. Forty-eight years old. I hope one pair makes a half-century.