the corner office

We have an allotment. When I say 'we', I mean my darling wife. When I say 'allotment', I mean a small patch of land neglected by the former holder for what must have been decades and so weed and grass and pebble infested that our veteran allotment-neighbour suggested it'd likely be years before the entire thing is sorted out.

That's not my story. I occasionally go along to the allotment to help with the heavy lifting. We all went this morning and I did my bit (and picked up two mean blisters, but that's not my story either). After doing my bit, I was sitting in the car changing out of my muddy trainers into my sandals.

What the hell, I thought, and did something crazy. I didn't take my socks off.

Now, for swathes of European men, socks and sandals is a perfectly natural thing to do. For swathes of South African men, this is only the kind of lunatic thing strange foreign Europeans would ever do. A bit like getting conjugal with a goat - some might swear blind by it, but it's just not done. Consequently, this is probably the first time I've ever worn socks with sandals.

And I must admit, it felt remarkably comfortable.

Naturally, we got home, and our neighbours were all outside, and I had to walk past them looking as nonchalant as I could. I briefly pondered taking the socks off before getting out the car, but I decided that worrying what people thought of my pedal attire was even sillier than how I myself thought I looked. Nothing like a bit of social conditioning.

Not forever though. I give myself about another 10 years, and I'll be old-man confident and comfortable enough with the idea. Until then, sandals will remain a purely foot and leather affair, and no cloth between.