Community Service Ch. 06

You aren't doing a bad job of making the place look untidy yourself, Cheryl! I thought but didn't dare say.

"Yes, Cheryl, I couldn't agree more: make double-oh-seven work through his lunch breaks, if he can't keep his workload of dirty socks down to a respectable level," said Gina Stainham. "And to add to them, here's two more dirty socks!" she said, waving her white-socked feet in the air. "Look, double-oh-seven!" she told me.

And Gina wasn't kidding, either. The soles of her white leisure/sports socks were filthy dirty, especially at the impact points at her heels, the balls of her feet, and her toe pads – from her habitually walking around shoeless. Gina Stainham was hard work!

"Er, excuse me ... ladies, but as you have just pointed out, I must be getting on," I said.

And I was halfway down the six wooden steps leading into my 'domain', when—

"Go and get a clean pair of white socks from the sock shelves, double-oh-seven," said Gina Stainham. "And then come back here, and change my socks for me," she ordered.

What, the? I thought.

"Um ... yes, Mrs Stainham," I said, biting my tongue.

"And fetch a pair of white socks for me, too, community servant David – you know the sort I want," said Cheryl Chubb bossily. "And bring another pair, for Mrs Newlove!" she yelled at my retreating back. "You can change our socks for us, too!"

What the hell! I thought.

"Er ... yes, Mrs Chubb!" I called back.

And that set the three of them off to giggling and tittering.

Bloody hell! I thought.

They were complaining about me letting my sock-washing workload get out of hand, even to the point of suggesting I work through my thirty-minute lunch breaks until I've got it under some semblance of control – yet here they were, getting me to change their socks for them!

Because it was so obvious that no way could I ever possibly keep the female sock-changing residents of Canford supplied with clean socks, CSOs Karen and Linda ensured that the Sock Room's floor-to-ceiling shelves were always plentifully stocked with pairs of brand-new socks – by ordering me to refill them, each time the Socks r Us firm's van delivered another consignment.

There were lots of different socks to choose from on the sock shelves. But predominantly the shelves contained pairs of long, white leisure/sports socks, that, in these new 'femocratic' times when the UK's females had such an abundance of sports and leisure time, were by far the most popular choice of sock-changing females.

Looking at the sock shelves, I saw that fortunately there were still plenty of single-pack, 3-pack, and 5-packs of the long, white leisure/sports socks – naturally, when pairs of brand-new socks were available, sock-changing females would eschew the pre-worn, second-hand socks that I'd so laboriously laundered for them.

I selected a 3-pack of the required socks, tore off the brand-new socks' cardboard packaging, and returned with them to the three 'ladies of leisure' awaiting me on their recliners like princesses on their royal divans.

Raising her legs slightly, Gina Stainham said, "Take off my socks, double-oh-seven."

I hated being called that – double-oh-seven. It sounded like the ultimate mickey-take. Which of course it was.

"Yes, Mrs Stainham," I said, hoping my traumatised feelings weren't evident in my voice. I knew there was going to be more to this than met the eye – that had been my experience with 'The Sock Room Girls' so far.

Taking hold of the top of Gina's knee-length right sock, I rolled it down her tanned and very shapely leg so that her sock was automatically turned inside out when I pulled it from her foot – to save myself from having to do that horrible chore later. I then did the same with Gina's left sock.

Taking her pair of just-removed, turned inside out dirty white socks from me, Gina sniffed them, and she contorted her attractive features in an elaborate pantomime of mortified revulsion.

"Now mine, Community servant David," instructed Cheryl Chubb. "Take off my socks."

"Yes, Mrs Chubb," I said, red-faced with shame, and I repeated the same, thoroughly belittling sock-removing procedure.

Taking her pair of just-removed, turned inside out dirty white socks from me, Cheryl sniffed them and, hamming it up, she coughed exaggeratedly as though overcome by noxious fumes.

Now it was my neighbour from hell Mrs Norma Newlove who elevated her legs slightly, prompting me to 'attend' her. "Come on – Community servant David double-oh-seven!" she snapped. "Jump to it! Chop chop! Take off my socks!"

I felt my bottom lip tremble, and I knew I was on the verge of tears – because I was being reduced to this: changing my neighbour from hell Norma Newlove's dirty, stinky socks for her!

Thanks to the Authoritarian Female Party's new Female-Friendly legislations, including empowering all females (including foreign businesswomen and vacationers) with authority over all UK males, Norma Newlove was literally 'socking it to me' beyond her wildest hopes and dreams.

"Yes, Mrs Newlove," I said, and I was dismayed to hear the raw emotion betrayed in my croaking voice.

This was too much!

But I knew that Norma was hoping for just the flimsiest, teeniest excuse to get on the Sock Room's internal phone to complain to my two cane-wielding – and cane-happy! – supervisors.

Repeating the automatically-turned-inside-out sock-removing procedure again, I took hold of the top of Norma's knee-length right sock, and rolled it down her – and even I couldn't deny the truth of it: very shapely – leg, and pulled it from her foot. I then did the same with Norma's left sock.

Taking her pair of just-removed, turned inside out dirty white socks from me, Norma sniffed them, and, hamming it up, as though assailed by the pungent emanations of an overripe Stilton, Norma cried in disgust: "Phwaah!"

"I wonder which of our socks are stinkiest?" said Cheryl Chubb. "I bet mine are – I've been wearing these socks since Friday morning!"

Immediately, my mental alarm bells began clanging.

But before I could retreat from within her reach, with her free hand Norma grabbed my hair and pulled my head close to her ample bosom. She was surprisingly strong, and I wasn't about to have a Tug of War contest with Norma pulling forcefully on my scalp. "Well, we'll soon find out, Cheryl," said Norma. "Because he'll tell us – Community servant David double-oh-seven!"

Arranging the toe section of one of her just-removed, turned inside out dirty white socks, Norma covered my nose with the damp, now greyish-white cotton and pushed hard, sealing my nostrils with her sock's toe section. "Now sniff – Community servant David double-oh-seven! Sniff!"

This was too much! Much too much!

But unless I was prepared to let her pick up the internal phone and dial '1' for CSOs Karen and Linda's office, and place myself at the mercy of their arbitrary arbitrations, I was powerless to resist or refuse Norma.

So I sniffed ... to find that Norma hadn't been hamming it up, after all, as a powerfully pungent aroma – much as I'd imagine an overripe Stilton to smell – assailed me. 'Phwaah!' – indeed!

Arranging the toe section of one of her turned inside out socks, just as Norma Newlove had done, Gina Stainham said, "Now come here, double-oh-seven. And smell my socks."

Compliantly, I reported to Gina Stainham's recliner.

Snatching a good handful of my hair, just as Norma had done, Gina sealed my nostrils with the toe section of one of her just-removed, turned inside out dirty white socks. "Now sniff, double-oh-seven. Come on – sniff!" ordered Gina.

I sniffed ... to find that Gina hadn't contorted her attractive features in an elaborate pantomime of mortified revulsion, after all – it had been for real!

Arranging the toe section of one of her turned inside out socks, just as Norma and Gina had done, Cheryl Chubb, the instigator of the stinky-sock 'contest' said, "Now come here, Community servant David. And smell my socks."

Compliantly, I reported to Cheryl Chubb's recliner.

Gripping a good fistful of my hair, just as Norma and Gina had done, Cheryl sealed off my nostrils with the toe section of one of her just-removed, turned inside out, now yellow-tinged dirty white cotton socks. "Now sniff, Community servant David. Sniff – and sniff deeply!" commanded Cheryl.

I sniffed ... to find that Cheryl hadn't been hamming it up either, after all. Cheryl hadn't exaggerated her coughing fit – because now, coughing myself, I realised that she actually had been overcome by her own, noxious stinky-feet fumes!

Releasing her painful grip on my hair, Cheryl said, "So, Community servant David. Your decision: Mrs Stainham's, Mrs Newlove's ... or mine? Whose socks are the stinkiest?"

I didn't know what to say.

They wouldn't believe me if I said that none of their socks ponged – they'd all see it for the cop out that it was. This was very tricky, fraught with incalculable risk: I had to make a choice – and yet somehow make the right choice.

"Um ... all of your socks are very stinky, Mrs Chubb. But ... but I'd have to say that it's your socks, Mrs Chubb, that are the stinkiest. I nearly choked on the fumes. So, Mrs Chubb, I ... I declare you the winner."

"See!" shouted Cheryl Chubb triumphantly. "See, Norma? See, Gina? I've won. Community servant David has declared me the winner. My socks are the stinkiest!" she said with the greatest of satisfaction.

But Norma Newlove had a face like thunder.

I had to try to placate the chagrined Norma. So I approached her first, with one of the pairs of brand-new white sports/leisure socks from the 3-pack I'd brought from the sock shelves. "Um ... Mrs Newlove. You said you wanted me to change your dirty socks for you—"

"Give me those socks!" snapped Norma Newlove, snatching the pair of socks from my hands in annoyance. "Do you think I'm incapable of putting a pair of socks on my own two feet?"

Oops ... maybe I'd chosen the wrong stinky-sock contest winner.

I'd known the decision of the 'award' was fraught with risk. But there was no question that Cheryl Chubb deserved it!

"No, Mrs Newlove. But ... but you said—"

"Well, what I am telling you now – Community servant David double-oh-seven! – is to get on with your sock-washing! Before I get on that phone and inform your supervisors that you haven't done a single bit of work since you've come back from your lunch break. So get yourself back down those steps. And here – take our dirty socks with you!"

"Yes, Mrs Newlove," I said through gritted teeth.

As brassily dictated by my neighbour from hell Norma Newlove, I descended the six wooden steps to my one-man-laundry 'domain' – taking along with me her, Gina Stainham's and Cheryl Chubb's pairs of dirty, stinky white socks.

But at least their socks were already pulled inside out.

*

Sitting on my wooden folding chair facing the 'Spectators' Gallery' that overlooked my 'domain', and pulling inside out another big batch of the sock-changing females of Canford's dirty, stinky white socks, I looked up to see the return of the three new faces reoccupying the same recliners they'd vacated earlier.

I assumed they'd returned from having a spot of lunch in one of the High Street's food outlets – unlike the so-called 'regulars', they hadn't come to the Sock Room prepared with leather sports bags full of here-for-the-day food and drink provisions.

When I looked up again, after turning inside out another four or five pairs of balled-up stinky white socks, it was to see that the three new faces were now sitting up comfortably on their black leather recliners and observing me with great amusement – they'd heard about the Sock Room community servant, but now for the first time they were witnessing his 'antics' for themselves.

Each of the three new faces' having removed their trainers, the soles of their white-socked feet were almost directly facing me. I was sitting on my wooden folding chair, but if I'd been standing the soles of their feet would have been at my head height.

I had fallen into the habit on these occasions, of making a 'professional' assessment as to the dirtiness and sweatiness of the socks that it was my duty to hand-wash and launder to a high standard. And upon closer observation I saw that the three new faces' white cotton socks were stained grey from their foot sweat, at their heels, the balls of the feet, and the toe sections.

But in my 'professional' assessment the three of them were no worse than the average Sock Room visitor; their socks didn't look overly sweaty or dirty.

For this, at least, I was grateful: I knew that some of the more bitchy sock-changing females (Chery Chubb, for one) purposefully wore their socks for days on end and sweated and dirtied up their socks deliberately.

Gina Stainham's socks got filthy dirty. But in her case I believed this was just because of Gina's preference for walking about shoeless – the fact that because of her indifference and carelessness of my plight I was then left with her filthy dirty socks to try to hand-wash clean again was just the unfortunate consequence. So Gina Stainham contributed to making my life hell without even trying.

More and more girls and women were taking to wearing trainers now, in these new 'femocratic' times, I thought as I 'professionally' assessed the white-socked soles of the three new faces' feet. The light and comfortable, sporty footwear were the perfect accompaniment to their leisure/sports socks, and—

"What are you looking at – Community servant David double-oh-seven?" demanded Norma Newlove belligerently, interrupting stuffing her face with at least her third bag of Cheese & Onion crisps from her big multipack. I was sure she was addicted to that flavour. Could that be why her feet and socks smelled so pungently of strong, overripe cheese? I wondered.

"Get on with your work – those stinky socks aren't going to pull themselves inside out! No wonder your workload is getting so out of hand!" Norma told me. "I'm going to suggest to your supervisors that you work through your lunch breaks, for the time being. And that you start working Saturdays, too – I bet CSOs Karen and Linda would welcome the triple-pay overtime!"

That cow! I thought.

CSO's Karen and Linda, I thought, would probably welcome regular Saturday-opening – and so would Norma and cronies! My two so-called supervisors would 'earn' a small fortune in overtime pay, and the so-called regulars' Sock-Room-cum-social-club would be open for an extra day.

The three new faces crossed their ankles and started scrunching and flexing their white-socked toes pleasurably, smiling admiringly at Norma.

Norma Newlove was showing the three new faces 'the ropes'!

"Wow! This place is a cool hangout!" enthused the prettiest of the three new faces, and her two friends nodded their emphatic agreement.

"Oh, we have all sorts of fun, with the community servant," Norma told the three Sock Room initiates, who then pleasurably scrunched and flexed their white-socked toes some more.

Once I'd deposited this white plastic laundry basket full of turned inside out dirty white socks into the hot-and-soapy-water tank for their two-hour minimum pre-wash soak, I thought, concentrating on my work again, I'd be able to crack on with hand-washing the pre-soaked socks in the temperature-controlled stainless steel hot-and-soapy-water sink. And ...

And what was that noise again, that sounded a bit like an electric toothbrush? There it was, starting up yet again.

I'd heard it thrumming away this morning, off and on. When the 'regulars' and the three new faces had been clipping their toenails, and looking over at me, smirking mischievously.

Looking up from my work, about ten pairs of turned inside out socks later, I saw there were quite a number of sock-changing females now crowding around Norma Newlove's recliner. There was a hubbub of excited anticipation about them, as they took turns clipping their toenails, and—

"I thought I told you to get on with your work – Community servant David double-oh-seven!" yelled Norma. "Do you want me to get on that internal phone, to CSOs Karen and Linda? Now, I won't tell you again: Get on with your sock-washing!"

The three new faces smiled at Norma with open admiration.

That ... witch! I thought.

And now I realised it was her, Norma Newlove – my self-appointed slave-driver! – who was responsible for making that mysterious noise, that sounded a bit like an electric toothbrush.

*

The afternoon dragged on slowly.

But at least now, an hour or so after my much needed fifteen-minute afternoon tea break, the end of the day's Sock Room drudgery was finally in sight.

With my pair of long wooden tongs, I'd transferred the last of the presoaking socks from the hot-and-soapy-water tank into the temperature-controlled stainless-steel hot-and-soapy-water sink. And with my back thankfully turned to those nothing-better-to-do-with-their-time female watchers in the 'Spectators' Gallery', I'd made good inroads with hand-washing the dirty white socks, and transferring the washed sudsy socks into the adjacent stainless-steel rinsing sink.

The electric-toothbrush-like noise had been going almost incessantly; it would stop for a few seconds, and then resume. But I ignored it, and just got with my mind-numbing, soul-destroying toil. After all, what the hell did I care what the buzzing noise was?

I would have just about enough time, I estimated, to rinse out the day's last batch of socks, squeeze out most of the water by means of the old-fashioned mangle, and hang the damp socks out on the nylon clotheslines in the flagstone courtyard to dry overnight.

I'd steam-iron the socks in the morning after I'd filled up the hot-and-soapy-water tank with another batch of the dirty white socks for their two-hour minimum pre-wash soak. For the next couple of days at least, I thought, I'd better prioritise the dirty white socks. Two more of the white-painted wheelie bins were now overflowing with dirty white socks, and—

"Um ... er, Community servant David? Would you come over here, please?" said Norma Newlove.

'Please'?

I didn't like the sound of that. I didn't like it one little bit. Norma had to be up to something. But what?

Reluctantly but resignedly I pulled off my pink washing-up gloves, and I turned around to see Norma, her Sock Room cronies Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb, the three new faces, and also about fifteen other sock-changing females, all looking over at me from the 'Spectators' Gallery' with innocent smiles on their faces.

What the hell was going on?

Warily, I trudged up the six wooden steps to the upper level of the Sock Room, and compliantly I reported to Norma's recliner.

Looking at the sea of twenty-plus butter-wouldn't-melt-in-their-mouths faces, I said, "Um, what ... what can I do for you, Mrs Newlove?"

"We want you to, um ... adjudicate another contest for us, David," said Norma Newlove pleasantly.

'David'?

I definitely didn't like the sound of that. Now I knew for certain, that Norma was up to something. But what?

"Another contest, Mrs Newlove?"

"Yes, David, another contest. This time, we'd like you to judge, from out of all of us ..." Norma gestured to encompass all of the twenty-plus sock-changing females present in the Sock Room, "... who has the cutest toenailed, and the nicest, smoothest, prettiest soles."

"Um ... Mrs Newlove, I—"

"Stand at the foot of my recliner, David, and start with my feet. Then you can judge the other reclining ladies' feet. Followed by all of the other ladies' feet."

"Um ... Mrs Newlove, I'm not sure I'm qualified, to—"

"Here, David," said Norma Newlove, raising her outstretched legs. "Start with me. Hold out the palms of your hands for me to rest my heels in, so that you have a perfect view of the soles of my feet ... Come on, David, my legs are getting all tired and achy, holding them up like this."