Have you ever wondered where odd socks go?

I haven't  

I know full well they lurk beneath and behind things,

the dark places you don't stretch to without sneezing;

they float footless and foot loose round drawers

quick fix casualties of a kid's idea of tidy;

they lie, dry balled into corners of duvet covers

the ones you don't use very often

but are sure to use -

soon  after the lonely sock cull...

 

I do admit to wondering about the design features

of modern toasters though,

in particular - why mine has 6 browning settings,

 when level 3 burns my bread to crisp.

I wonder whether I should take it to level 6

just for the Jeremy Clarkson hell of it

- and to see if my fire alarm works...

I also wonder why my top of the range Russell and Hobbs,

can't rustle up a decent slice of toast...

though complete with reheat, frozen and bagel function,

why it fails to fit a normal sized slice of bread,

leaving one centimetre untoasted every day,

Come on Mr Dyson - use your loaf

there's a great white hole in the market

and if I'm not mistaken,

the great unwashed British public

want their bread toasted both sides,

as well as buttered!

 

Recently I've taken to wondering

what cretin designed my new dining table,

bought unseen off the internet

perfect size for my family and kitchen.

I wonder why the umpteen reviews I read prior to purchase

failed to warn me about the 2mm decorative groove

running its full length and breadth ;

of just what a perfect receptacle this would be for

bread crumbs, rice, salt, glitter

or whatever shit happens to fall down there.

I wonder why the table didn't come with its own compass

not the kind to help you out

when you're marooned up some mountain

nor yet the modern, post bullying awareness  one

for where would be the point in that?

no - I mean the nice sharp metal ones

you can run along a line of grime

or plunge into an offending cretin's backside.

Now I'm left wondering whether it's safe

to bathroom grout a dining room table

and why I never take advantage

of a 28 day returns guarantee?

 

I spend a lot of time wondering

maybe it's the poet's curse,

and sometimes  at the close of day

when all the socks are matched

the ungrouted table cleared away

when I've given and done

given and done

given and done

and that big old tired sun

has tipped its hat and gone

I look into a lonely littered sky

and wonder why

if there's a reason up above

the oh so loveable and loving

should go unloved.