Those of you who felt dissatisfied with the explanations given in our Welcome and Why pages will be even more displeased with the artifacts we have compiled here in our Chronicles section, which are only going to worry you further.
Mike's just nipped downstairs for a coffee and I've managed to slip off his foot and crawl up onto his desk to use his computer while he's away. I'm going to have to be really careful 'though 'cos if he comes back and catches me doing this he's going to scream blue murder. He'll probably also have a go at my companions back home in the drawer or in the linen basket as soon as we arrive home tonight.
Fortunately, my colleague for the day, Right Sock, has managed to induce a severe tickle on Mike's foot so hopefully that will distract his attention away from the fact that I am currently not on his left foot.
Anyway, the reason why I'm writing to you is because we're all becoming rather concerned about Mike. Since he moved to London he hasn't spoken to us once. Oh, he still washes us, sorts us out and puts us away, but he just hasn't been bothering to spend a few minutes in idle chit-chat with us anymore. As you are doubtlessly aware, a few kind words during the laundry process are essential to any collection of loyal foot garments and so suddenly to withdraw such appreciative banter is inevitably bound to lead to the decline in morale that we've all been suffering lately. To put it in your own words, Kate, it's not normal!
In all fairness, we did expect that life wasn't going to be easy for the first couple weeks and so we didn't make too much fuss about it. But he's been here for over a month now and given us not a hint of recognition. Too busy flouting around with his new actress friends it seems to me. This is why we feel the need to contact you. You understand us. You sympathise with our needs. We feel we can look upon you as a personal friend, not just the friend of someone whose feet we clothe. We've tried talking to Henstridge about our problem but she just doesn't seem to care. She just goes strutting about the house with Niky and Beatrice, pretending to lay eggs. Lay eggs, pah! Doesn't she realise she's only a marionette? And Spike's not much better - he still gets watered regularly. His attitude is "I'm all right, socks, so bugger off!"
So next time you phone or write, please can you say something that will put him in mind of our plight. But please, please, please be subtle about it. If he finds out that I've written to you directly it'll be the darning needle for the lot of us. I'm sure I can count on your discretion.
Anyway, how are things in Leeds? I hope you're looking after your tights and stockings. We've missed you a lot since Mike moved. You are the only person we know who has incorporated us into one of their plays. This is why we feel we can rely on you.
I'd better go now as I've got to get this letter printed out before Mike gets back and I'm not terribly familiar with WordPerfect version 6.0. I also have to try and sneak back onto Mike's foot with this letter, put it in an envelope and slip it into a letter box as we're passing one without him noticing. Hmmm, tricky.
I do hope you can help.
Mike's Left Sock.
Kate just left the room to go and wash her hair so now is my chance. I was so sorry to hear of your plight. I too am in a similar situation. Kate doesn't really care about me. She's just using me to put her tits in. She wears me until I turn yellow and smell of pus-ridden anal warts around a ferret's fudge tunnel before she takes me off and washes me, and it's awfully tiresome having to carry round those melon-heavy pert bouncy bosoms all the time.
Don't worry that Mike doesn't talk to you these days. It's because he has some vague semblance of a life now, but it's bound not to last. He can't be seen to talk to footwear in front of his posh new southern friends, can he? They might not allow him to holiday with them on daddy's estate in Hertfordshire if they think he's mentally unbalanced. Anyway, he's still writing letters on your behalf so things can't be too serious. Personally, I think he's still tapped.
Shit! I have to go. Kate's back and she's looking all over for me. Look, just hang in there, OK? If morale is low sing a song! Try Sitting On The Sock Of The Bay, or I Am A Sock by Simon and Garfunkel.
It's been six days since we left the yogurt mines of Isandlwana. I am still having difficulty coming to terms with Bunny Johnson's decision to stay and try to sort out the lysteria problems with the low fat pineapple and grapefruit flavours. However, I'm sure his experience in the Lancashire Fusiliers will hold him in good stead - he was the cuttlefish eating champion for three years running and regimental mascot for two. But the expedition will miss him dearly, I in particular. He was always a good man with an armadillo when morale was at a low ebb.
Tomorrow we set off for Mabouti Ridge where we hope to find the rare Scrotum tree which is the only tree in Africa known to lay size 4 free range eggs. It is said that extracts from the yolks of these eggs can be used to induce marmosets to write poetry as beauteous as that of Byron or Shelley. To get there we shall have to cross the Limpopo River which the natives fear for its silly name. I've had to shoot three of them this morning for getting the words to Rule Britannia wrong again.
Yesterday, Carruthers bagged a rhino and we had great fun trying to toss the dismembered breasts of the local maidens onto its horn. Needless to say, Algy won. He performed a superb lob from a distance of fifty feet, the point of the horn piercing precisely the hole of the nipple where the milk comes out. (The exact medical terminology escapes me but he scored thirty points for it.) How the natives cheered. And how those that didn't screamed as they were flayed against a mangrove tree.
Beautiful as this continent is, I cannot help thinking of England, particularly at this time of year. The daffodils will be in bloom, the elms will be in bud and it will be open season for maitre d's. Remember that poor soul at Harvey's whose trousers we stuffed with electric eels? How kind of the coroner to pass a verdict of misadventure for only a hundred pounds.
I shall look forward to seeing you again my darling as soon as this wretched expedition is over; maybe we can go punting on the Serpentine if that's not too audacious a thing to ask. I have already taken the liberty of writing to your father for permission but I have since heard that he's recently gone stark staring mad. Is this true?
Until then, my thoughts will be of you with every wild beast I callously slay.
All my love,
My Dearest Michael,
I thought I would never hear from you, I've been so terribly worried. Will your expedition never come to an end? You sound to be having a hoot and my life will no doubt seem perfectly dull after your devilish jaunts.
I attended a croquet party at the Plethora-Smythes after chapel on Sunday where I bumped into Larry. He and Hattie are engaged to be married now. He has been booked into a first class clinic on the south coast of Norway - specialists say there is an operation available which could restore his sight. Needless to say, we Knitting Circle ladies are keeping our fingers crossed that it doesn't work. I don't think poor Hattie has explained to him about the dorsal fin yet. Must be awfully embarrassing for her. I also saw Ada. She's looking ever so plump after swallowing that mosque.
Slide Henry-Plimpford Junior has been expelled from Eton. Apparently he was caught with his dangly bits out in the school aviary. Seems Aunt Hildred's budgerigar may not have died from beak cancer afterall. Finbarr sends his regards. He was over for the annual grouse tease last Wednesday. He's dreadfully good at it; has the little blighters in a real fury. Father was rather cross. You know how he likes to boast about the grouse he teased before the war. These days he can barely get them to be mildly irritated.
You were right about father, by the way. His sanity is somewhat fragile. We've tried every specialist in Europe but can't seem to put an end to his raccoon fetishes. It's terribly sad to see the old goat go down this way. He's still only fifty seven but he's had to have so many rodents surgically disattached there's hardly any of him left.
Did you remember about the village fete next month? I do hope you can come home in time for it. We have already begun to prepare for it. Father is doing his usual talk on rare breeds of anchovy for the Ladies Auxilliary and mother is running a stall selling her much famed pigeon fat preserves. Yesterday, they chose the Flower Queen for the year. All the girls between the ages of twelve and sixteen congregated before the vicar and dropped their knickers as usual. Unsurprisingly, he chose Lizzie 'Long-Cleft' Armitage again.
I have decided to try my hand at a little tapestry for the fete. Mrs. Hornblower's landscapes were a real winner last year, although why she chose to reproduce elaborate impressions of Yards Outside Public Toilets is beyond me. She was always running short of brown and yellow thread.
Anyhow, my dear, I know you have rhino to slay and natives to meat-hook so I shall leave you and prepare for the dreaded ball I must attend at Lumpy Boil's.
Disembowel a couple for me,
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