The curious case of the left and right socks

Dear Aunty Blipfoto,
 
Mrs Ottawacker and I have been together for a fair number of years now and during that time, I think it is fair to say, we have not had many disagreements. I put this down primarily to my tolerant and sunny disposition. Needless to say, Mrs Ottawacker doesn’t always agree with that, but we agree to let her be wrong on occasion. No need to belabour the point.
 
One issue on which we frequently clash, however, is footwear. Footwear is the Brexit of our relationship. And not just any footwear. Mrs Ottawacker understands my farting about in a 5-year-old pair of running shoes because they are “comfortable”, and I understand her need to wear heels on special occasions, even though this means she looks down on me from a significant height and we look more like owner and pet than a couple. No, the issue has nothing to do with shoes, it has everything to do with socks. And let me tell you, she is treading a fine line.
 
You see, being of Danish origin, Mrs Ottawacker has, very occasionally, inherited some of the more rigid attributes of that race. Beneath that warm and smiling demeanour, those dancing eyes and beautiful smile, lies a cold and determined streak, a streak permeated with Scandi Logic, a streak which means she can never be wrong, whatever the subject. Fortunately for me, and indeed for us, this streak only reveals itself on one subject: that of socks.
 
If you were to take a stroll through Mrs Ottawacker’s sock draw, a cavernous and capacious space, larger than that which houses all my clothes, you would notice several things: 1) there is an element of colour coordination (which I can, à la limite, understand); 2) there are socks for every season and every type of footwear (again, this I can understand); 3) there is a space reserved for Danish socks, which are increasing in number, as they are currently her favourite. So far, so good.
 
Now, in our house, during the distribution of tasks, I was attributed “the laundry”. I collect it, sort it, wash it, hang it out to dry, take it down from its drying spot, fold it up, put it in baskets, and deliver it to the person whose laundry it is. Again, so far, so good. Everyone seems happy with the arrangement. I fold well, I am a responsible launderer who rarely leaves tissues in pockets or overfills machines, rarely causes colours to run in the wash and never shrinks clothes. You would think, therefore, that people would be happy with this and would, on occasion, proffer a “well done, Ottawacker, you are a jolly good launderer.” And, indeed, this does occasionally happen. Lately, however, there has been something of a chill at the moment of laundry distribution, a frisson of frustration, a bit of bitching at the blanchisseur. And it is all to do with those bloody Danish socks.
 
For it seems to be a custom among the Danes—a people to whom I had not hitherto attributed either the condition known as Gerstmann syndrome or directional dyslexia—to mark their socks with “L” and “R”, obviously meaning “left” and “right”. Fair enough, who am I to judge? What seems more incredible to me, though, is that these socks are obviously sold for the Danish diaspora, since in Danish, left and right are actually “venstre” and “højre”. (Maybe the hugely impressive Danish welfare state includes programmes aimed specifically at those members of the Danish diaspora suffering from Gerstmann syndrome?) Anyway, I digress. The fact is that they do it. And as a responsible launderer, I make sure that each of Mrs Ottawacker’s socks is carefully rolled up into a pair containing both an “L” sock and an “R” sock. This is why we are still married.
 
You would think, therefore, that this would be sufficient to mollify Mrs Ottawacker’s cold Danish determination. Think again. Here is a sample of an ongoing conversation:
 
“Oh, you’ve done it again!” she said, just this morning.
“What?”
“You’ve put the L sock to the right of the pair and the R sock to the left of the pair.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In the bundle of socks, the left sock is on the right side and the right sock is on the left side.”
“What?”
“Why would anyone put the left sock on the right side and the right sock on the left side? It makes no sense. It’s easier for me to put them on if they come to me the right way round. There’s a right way to do it, why wouldn’t you do it the right way?”
 
I ask you: is that reasonable? She has a good dozen pairs of these socks: I have toyed with the idea of either making up pairs of left only socks and right only socks – or simply of not washing any of her left socks for a couple of weeks – but so far, have been content with finishing variations of the above conversation with phrases such as “you are obviously clinically insane” or more frequently just staring at her with my mouth open until she feels I might be having a stroke and leaves the room.
 
Mrs Ottawacker’s complete and total lack of reason is, I underscore, confined only to this issue. What should I do? Should I cave in and place the socks just the way she wants them? Will this lead to further OCD behaviour in the future? Will she want, for example, her underwear folded so the label is visible at the front? Is it the thin edge of the wedge? And what happens if my left hand doesn’t know what my right hand is doing?
 
Any advice you might be able to give would be gratefully received.