In obscure and inaccessible mountains far in the frozen north, the Sock Monks live. Subsisting on a diet of worms and sticky tape, they dig their vast networks of tunnels, not always deep but far and wide, stretching from mountain to sea, and sea to sea. From wasteland to cultivated land they dig, their tonal drones echoing through the night; a contralto ‘hygge’ with each heave, a heavy and lugubrious ‘lagommmm’ to sound out the morning – until at last they reach the squalid shores of human civilisation. Where the Washing Machines live. Where Socks can be found.
The socks are then cunningly stolen, singly, and sorted. Any with a nice knit pattern are carried all the way back to the mountains, to be presented to the most senior Sock Monks, who then wear them for the remainder of their lifespan. Holes in the heels are considered useful to look through, though more conservative monks consider this cheating and darn theirs (they walk into walls a lot).
There are probably stranger paths to Enlightenment.
PS. And since I completely forgot to actually post the name of the song I was going on about, it was My Melancholy Baby, and it starts ‘Come to me my melancholy baby’, and it’s lovely. Though I do start singing it whenever I see a melon, which can get annoying. ^_^
2 thoughts on “Sock monk”
Excellent story, Iris !
^_^ Thanks Gilles!
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