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Socktastic

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"Dear God," said Charles, staring the hairy, much-darned, sock-like object nestling amongst his clean laundry. "That really must be Archie's. A Communist sock." He shuddered.

But before he could go about disposing of the sock-like object, Minka emerged from underneath his bed, threatened him with death by rag rug and stuffed badger, and Charles found himself marched back to the hut.

Back in the pile of clean laundry, the Communist sock stretched. "Bloody luxury," it said. "Comforts stolen from the proletariat, you ask me."

Next to it, a silk sock twitched to lie a little further away. "Nobody did ask you," it said.

"You're just a tool of the oppressive capitalist regime," the Communist sock said. "You don't even realise that you're being subjugated, forced to wrap yourself around some posh bastard's feet."

"I'm a *sock*," the silk sock pointed out. "It's my job. And you do exactly the same."

"Ah, there you're wrong. I have deliberately embraced my lowly status as a way to contribute to overthrowing the petite bourgeoisie."

"Nonsense," said the silk sock. "You get a stinking geordie foot shoved inside you and you have absolutely no say in the matter."

The Communist sock would have grinned lasciviously, if it weren't a sock. "I can think of other things I wouldn't mind having shoved inside me."

"Oh, what the hell," said the silk sock. "I always did like a bit of rough."