W here are my socks? I've been asked this question many times over the years. Invariably the aforementioned articles are exactly where they're supposed to be; in the drawer paired up into neat little bundles.

But men being hunters and women being gatherers, the hunter of this house is gazing somewhere above and beyond the horizon (and the socks) and can't see the wood for the trees, so to speak.

Along comes gatherer woman of said house, whose cave-dwelling ancestor was pretty good at observing where the best roots and berries were. Socks are pretty much to hand, if you know where to look.

There's one exception: what happens to them when they go into the washing machine?

Why is it I put two of a pair in and take only one of that pair out? Have I only put one in after all? Or is it that once safe within the confines of the turning drum, one of the socks develops a mind of its own and a yearning to escape?

I find it hard to believe that it squeezes through the same tube as the water and slithers off down the drain in pursuit of a better life.

It won't find a better life, of course, not unless you count rotting away in a sewer better than turning into a series of holes on somebody's foot. Unless it's spewed out into the sea and ends up languishing on a beach overlooking the Bristol Channel. Not quite the Med but refreshing enough after a sock drawer.

Sock drawers cannot be very special, so I suppose a change of scene must be appealing. Like people, socks must dream of getting away, escaping to something better.

Unlike people, socks do not indulge in hobbies. Hobbies get you out and about and meeting people. They also get you into the bright outdoors beyond the reach of monotonous TV soaps, cold-calling double glazing salesmen, party political broadcasts and doorstep canvassers.

However, for one particular hobby that I care deeply about (being the proud co-owner of a boat), the threat of being put back in the drawer – or at least being told when you can come and go – is looming large thanks to the EU and the war against terror.

Now the men who sail, and keep their trusty craft at places like Watchet or Portishead, will have to report when they are leaving port and can be fined if they fail to notify time, date and place of embarkation, plus time, date and place of arrival at wherever they are going that day.

It doesn't matter if they are sailing south until the butter melts, or even if they are leaving Portishead for a Sunday jaunt down to Ilfracombe.

And telling the port authorities their intentions doesn't mean to say they'll actually get there. Tide, time and wind wait for no man, just because the EU dictates this will be so.

Going out on one tide and heading for a certain port doesn't mean you'll get there. A good blow in the Bristol Channel and you could find yourself in Cardiff or Minehead. A really good one and you could be rounding The Lizard before you can say "ship shape and Bristol fashion".

And what if, on a little Sunday afternoon jaunt, the First Mate (her that's really an admiral in disguise) decides she quite likes the look of that little bay over there. How about we nip over and drop anchor? Will the fact that they do just that, and get out the picnic basket, attract the attention of the anti-terrorist squad and a huge fine? Purely because they fancied having a picnic in a secluded little bay?

The weather and the water do not work to EU rules and regulations and couldn't give a hoot for parliamentary directives.

Socks are lucky in that they are not governed by rules. If they want to go it alone and shoot off down the tube, that's up to them. Nobody will stop them. Nobody actually sees them go.