Out of thin air, it seems, I have acquired a pair of socks in my bedside cupboard which I have never seen before.

I have dismissed the possibility that my middle-aged brain may be playing up and I simply cannot remember having bought them.

They are clearly not mine. So where have they come from? Mrs S insists they must be mine. She was quite adamant the other day, when I suggested it, that, no, she is not having an affair.

But the mystery remains. I would therefore like to invite you, dear reader, to help me to solve it.

The socks in question are jet black and have the word "Friday" written in gold lettering running around the circumference of the bit into which you stick your feet.

Backside

Their rightful owner, I can surmise from this, is probably a chap who doesn't know his backside from his elbow as clearly only someone with such a basic lack of comprehension of the world at large would need to be reminded of the day of the week by looking at his socks.

On this basis, I suppose, I could well understand it if someone had bought me such a pair (and presumably six other pairs as well) but the plain fact is they didn't. So I'm left the consider the possibilities.

Does my bedside cupboard serve as a doorway, Narnia-like, to a parallel universe where the people are so busy battling wicked ice queens that they tend to be a little forgetful when it comes to where they put their socks?

Or is there a Doctor Who-style rift in the space time continuum which has linked me, temporarily, to an alternative reality in which I display far less taste (if that were possible) than in this present one?

I suppose I should be grateful really.

After all, socks usually go missing rather than turn up in increasing numbers.

Anyway, if anyone out there wants to claim back their missing socks perhaps they'd like to contact me at the YEP and we can put our heads together and try to work out how the mix-up occurred.

Failing that, if the phantom clothes depositor wishes to remain anonymous that's fine by me but, next time, would he mind leaving behind a couple of decent shirts, size 17 collar?


...and you can put a sock in it, too, Lloyd-Webber!


DID you see the arch-gurner and composer of the odd memorable ditty throw his spectacular little hissy fit on Sunday night?

I'm talking about Lord Lloyd-Webber, who got his amazing technicolor undies in a right twist over the voting in I'd Do Anything.

It transpired that our man was angry because he felt the two wannabes up for the chop shouldn't have been standing before him.

"I'm angry," he said, just to confirm this state of affairs. And he pulled his "angry" face - which was still a darn sight more pleasant than many of the faces he has been pulling during the competition.

Having tossed out former Scott family favourite Keisha (when I'm guessing he'd rather have been ditching redhead Ashley) he moved to emphasise his ire by disappearing from his throne in a fit of pique as the credits rolled.

"Oh what a circus! Oh what a show!" I felt like singing but out of respect to Mrs S and the others in the room I kept my trap shut.

The Lord's wrath may have been laid on just for the telly or, being a chap of a certain age, it could be that he was simply caught short at an inconvenient moment.

If it was genuine, then it was all a bit pathetic if you ask me.

The point is that if you agree to front this kind of telly fluff, you have to play by its rules.

And the rules are that, in terms of the public vote, it doesn't matter how good, or bad, the contestant is.

The only thing that does matter is how many people, including their mates and family, ring up to vote for them.

There's no point having a hissy fit if you don't like it.

Let's put it this way. His lordship doesn't need the publicity, or the brass.

One can only suspect, then, that it is either vanity or a shrewd awareness of the merits of free promotion for his world of musical theatre that persuades him to appear.

If he doesn't like what he's got to do he's quite free to clear off with his luvvie mates and cast a show in the normal way.

But, of course, it wouldn't get the free prime time coverage courtesy of Auntie Beeb.



Note to Lord L-W: Stick to the hilarious gurning - and don't try any more X Factor-style walk off stunts.

Note to everyone else: Vote for Jodie.


Tanks for nowt! Panic at the petrol pumps


FEARS of the impending-petrol-crisis-that-never-was appeared to have caused panic among the middle classes of Wakefield at the weekend.

What else could explain the fact that by tea time on Saturday the pumps at Sainsbury's supermarket had been practically bled dry? There was no diesel left at all.

I tried to imagine the panic of earlier in the day: the "yummy mummies" in their 4x4s getting into a right flap fearing they might not be able to get Tarquin and Jocasta to their posh private school on Monday morning or, heaven forbid, that they might have to catch a bus.

Having sent Mrs S on a quick recce round all the pumps to double check there was no fuel available for our humble family estate we drove on to Normanton where diesel was, thankfully, in plentiful supply.

Good sensible Yorkshire folk – in general, the people of Normanton are - and certainly not the types to lose all sense of reason over a few "scare" headlines.