Postcards From Across the Pond

WARNING: I am legally obligated to issue a TMI warning for the paragraph that follows. Unfortunately, it is germane to the story so, artistically, it needs to be included. I will, however, make it as brief and painless as possible:

The other day, I was getting ready for bed. I took off my underwear, dropped it on the floor, and put on my pyjamas. When I went to put my underwear in the laundry basket, however, it was gone.

(I hope that image isn’t seared into your retinas.)

*** This ends my TMI legal obligation. ***

I looked everywhere, which wasn’t hard, as there are few places it could have gone. I searched the floor, the bed, and even the bookcase where I store my To Be Read books, but it wasn’t mis-filed among the Elly Griffiths, Jo Nesbo, or Catherine Ryan Howard novels, or even the more erudite Edward Rutherford tomes. It was simply, totally, and irrevocably gone, as if it had been swallowed up by a hole in the space-time continuum.

Really, it’s the only logical explanation.

Then yesterday, I was doing some laundry. (Yes, ladies, I do laundry; my wife knew what she was doing when she promised the Home Office that she would take me in and feed me.) Among the assorted odds and ends I put into the washer, were two pairs of socks. Or four socks, as they were identical pairs. And I do know there were four of them because I counted them into the washing machine, and then counted them into the dryer. When I counted them out of the dryer, however, there were only three.

I did all that counting because, although I am not triskaidekaphobic, I like to pretend that I am, and I will not run a load of thirteen items in either the washer or the dryer. I will, therefore, throw a perfectly good shirt into the washer to change the load from thirteen items to fourteen, or wet a handy tea towel and toss that into the dryer if need be. It’s sort of triskaidedaphobia once removed, which doesn’t qualify as a full-blown, obsessive-compulsive disorder, but may provide fodder for the licensed psychologists among you. (I wonder how many ladies who had been impressed with my laundry prowess are now re-evaluating their opinions.)

Anyway, the sock is gone, and I can’t find it anywhere. My best guess is, it slipped through the wormhole and ended up, with my underwear, in the Laundry Basket at the End of the Universe.

This surprises me, because I thought I had left that celestial portal behind in our first flat. I wrote about it some time ago—Tales of the Unexplained, 23 March 2008—and later discovered that the phenomenon did not follow us into our second or third abodes. Until now. Upon re-reading that essay, I note that the original wormhole was in the bedroom, as this new one appears to be. (The anomaly in the dryer doesn’t count; all dryers are a portal into another dimension, especially for socks.)

This new rend in the space-time continuum has me a bit concerned, as I now have to be careful about dropping anything in the bedroom. But, on the other hand, as noted in the original essay, the wormhole occasionally gives things back. I still have the pink and blue striped pillowcase that somehow slipped from the Universe’s Laundry Basket into my bedroom at 36 Pelham Court, and I have no reason not to expect that more items might follow.

The Pillowcase. What more proof do you need?

I hope so; I could use a new shirt. This one has been washed so many times the colours are fading.