Pegging socks always makes me think — they swing together on the line like old friends at a bus stop, some bright, some faded, a few forever unmatched.

This morning, a blackbird perched close, tilting his head at the pegs as though weighing up which one might suit his nest. I smiled at the thought of baby birds tucked up in a sock cradle.

It makes me think. Socks, like people, have their frays and colours, but most keep turning up, ready for another day, softened by the weather and the wash.