My father-in-law Tom had a great quirk: he loved red socks and wore them constantly. It became such a trademark that he always got at least one pair for Christmas. In later years that one pair was often from England because apparently red socks are scarce in the states - whereas us Brits love them. Not sure why. Anyway, my 'Mum' made it a habit to send socks over every December and Tom would squeeze the wrapped gift knowingly before ripping it open with glee - every year the same.

When Tom died his family made a point to ask me if I wanted some socks - partly because most of them were from my homeland and partly because the ritual had always amused me. I was more then happy to accept the gift because I am a believer in fate, luck, and loved ones watching over us. Tom died from complications related to cancer and so whenever I give a book talk I make sure to wear red socks. I think my ability to tell a meaningful story to the many cancer survivors in the room is improved by confidence that comes from wearing loud, loving footwear.