Where do all the odd socks go?

Worn socks.
Bottom of the laundry basket, scrunched up inbetween layers of bedsheets and clothes. A stripey green and blue one falls to the grey landing carpet as I shake out Paula's green tank top.

Like a pass the parcel, a hidden gem reveals itself in every layer that's unwrapped.
Only they smell, so less exciting than a pass the parcel. More like a booby prize, or a lame adult version of the game. Far less fun than winning the balloon animal kit or a bag of haribo.

No, Mum's job is to harvest worn socks from every furthest dusty corner of the house. I feel like a fisherman out at sea, casting my net as far and wide as possible and reeling it in, hoping I've got them all.

Rolled into a sweaty ball in Jonny's room, that's the most treacherous part of the sea. I often pinch my nose in anticipation as I tiptoe into his room, afraid of what I might find.
The worst is finding just one.
Then I have to plunge an arm under the dusty bed, fumbling blindly for the partner to this decrepid white Umbro sea urchin. Aha, gotcha! But no, it's another single, lonely sock, a black one. I always find myself wandering where all the odd socks go?

We have a battered Waitrose Bag for Life circa 2003, full of odd socks. Washed and fit to be worn. The heels are all strong and not a hole in sight. Some of them have been in that bag for years!
Matches do show up though so I hesitate to throw any away. It's like a Lonely Hearts for odd socks. The socks send out adverts and wait for their perfect match, their complementary sock. Sometimes if one of us is out of clean socks, we'll consult the bag as a last resort. A quick bit of speed dating and we're pulling together an odd pair. They never get on that well. I had a green and white polkadot number once and one of Paula's pink socks with a panda on it.