The First Casualty of Christmas

Boxing Day. A sacred interval in the British calendar devoted to eating leftovers, mild regret, and pretending that time itself has paused. I had received, not twelve hours earlier, a gift of genuinely needed new socks. Practical. Sensible. A clear signal from the universe that my existing hosiery had crossed from “well worn” into “anthropological exhibit”.

So naturally, I decided to do some welding.

In Crocs.

This was not a moment of sudden madness. It was the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who has done this sort of thing before and survived. Many times. What could possibly go wrong? The Crocs had holes, yes, but they were ventilation holes. Designed. Intentional. A triumph of modern polymer footwear. And the socks were new. Untested. Full of promise.

Enter the spark.

Welding sparks are tiny, incandescent reminders that physics does not care about your recent gift haul. One of them executed a perfect ballistic arc, slipped neatly through the Croc’s design feature, and burned a hole straight through a sock that had not yet lived a full day. Less than a day. Barely broken in. Still warm from the goodwill of Christmas morning.

This is not carelessness. It is tradition. The British male has always tested new possessions immediately and destructively. New tools are scratched. New coats catch on nails. New socks are sacrificed to molten metal. It is how ownership is confirmed. If it survives first contact with real life, it is worthy. If not, it was clearly overconfident.

There is also a deeper moral here. Socks are given to protect feet from the world. Welding exists to remind us that the world is hotter, sharper, and more spiteful than socks. The spark was not malicious. It was instructional. A tiny glowing footnote saying, “Perhaps do not weld in beach shoes”.

The sock now has a hole. A small, precise, almost elegant hole. A reminder that optimism should never be allowed near power tools. It will be worn again, of course. I am not a monster. But it will be worn knowingly. With humility. Possibly with proper boots.

And next Christmas, when someone asks whether I need socks, I will say yes. Always yes. Because somewhere in the garage, physics is waiting.