I am growing old, my boy is growing up. My boy is achieving new heights, my height.
I let him have a T-shirt that would have me suffering accusations of mutton dressed as lamb. I may give-up a jacket that is black, yes, black leather biker cool, old-school that is never out, I have somethings in black too.
Finger-less mittens may be handed over. A woolly pully that has seen better years is handed over, but is decidedly teenage chic by the very fact of the elbow hole is cool and it has seen better years.
Its a case of Hanging on a flippin' cotton pickin' moment, sonny Jim.
There are things that I want not only handed back. I want never taken in the first place.
To set the scene, I am about to feast on a breakfast that does not quite do justice to the word feast. Buttered toast is not full English. But its faster than a sunny side up with rashers on the side.
I am about to dress before I enter the badlands of economic crisis. I am about to face the cruel world alone again. I am about to earn the family crust. I may have been worn down by the years like the elbows on an old pully. But there is rat race awaiting with a cheese with my name on it.
I have my new-ish suit to hide my larger than yester-year gut, my get in touch-with-my- feminine, comfortable-with-my-masculinity pink shirt riding on sloping shoulders; my two tone pink-on-pink tie nooses itself around its choice of chins; but and double but, I am being called upon to go to work without socks.
I am an executive without socks, someone has stolen my socks. My socks are MY socks. I want my SOCKS back.
I will have a tantrum. Pa Pryce's nickname is not sox-less and by darn there is a teenager whose nickname will not be sox-full.
By all things in common law justice I will have a pair of socks.