Wilbur was bored. Very bored. In fact, it was the most bored he could ever remember being. It had all been fun in the sock factory where he and his brother Orville had been made (they were a right pair of brothers). There'd been lots of different coloured socks, some even had patterns (secretly he wished he was patterned), and they'd all been whizzing up, down and all ways on the conveyer belts until eventually he and Orville had been labelled, stuck together and bundled into a box.
A dark box. Wilbur had hated that box, it had bumped about for hours until he'd been taken out and stuck on a shelf in a brightly lit store. Wilbur hated bright lights, he didn't know what socks were supposed to do when they grew up (Wilbur was 9 weeks old), but he hoped it didn't involve dark boxes or bright lights. Now he was just bored - he and Orville were just two brown 65% polyester 35% cotton socks amongst many. He missed the other coloured socks, most brown socks were very boring.
Wilbur was still bored. He didn't understand why every so often he was picked up only to be discarded in favour of another pair - something to do with size.
"Oh dear!" he thought "here we go again!" as he and Orville were picked up again. He heard the man say "Good! 6 to 8 " (Wilbur knew he was a size 6 to 8) and suddenly felt himself being carried to a counter.
"I'll take these" said the man.
Wilbur didn't know what was happening but somehow he was no longer bored. "This"
thought Wilbur "is the start of a big adventure for Orville and me. Now we are REAL socks!"
And he was right...
(TO BE CONTINUED)