Where’s My Shoe?
Did you get it out of the shoe box? Yes
Where did you put it? Right here.
So where is it? Dunno
He is standing in the kitchen with one school shoe on and one missing. We glance around and it fails to leap out shouting “boo”. It’s just over a metre between the shoe box and where he is standing – how can it possibly be missing? (I ponder, still grasping my scientific logic bubble as if the arrival of children failed to pop it irretrievably).
Bubbles and I both check the shoe box. We independently conclude that it is definitely not there, nor near it. We look under his coat and book bag. Nada. How can it possibly have disappeared? He had it just seconds ago. Argghhh.
The Hunt Begins
We search under the chairs, the table, even behind the bin (he has a tendency to fling). Nothing. I am both bemused and frantic, for it’s nearly time for the school schlep and the merest hint of being late has me hyperventilating. I start pulling chairs out, checking the seats and under the cushions, but this game of hide and seek has me well and truly stumped. How is it that one shoe and two children can outwit the brain that got me my PhD?
‘What have you done with it?’ I ask in exasperation, as if he is simply waiting for me to ask to shed light on this situation. ‘Nothing’ comes the reply. There follows some pointless and less than illuminating discussions as my voice rises to octaves only dogs can hear.
Since we have searched our small kitchen floor pretty thoroughly, we now hurriedly look in the less obvious places. In the oven? Nope. The fridge? Nope. The washing machine? Please not the washing machine, as that’s now a frothy, spinning jumble of school clothes embroidered in a mix of felt tip and snot. Still nothing.
Time Runs Out
I glance nervously at the clock. It is one minute past our scheduled exit from the house.
‘Here, wear these’ I say through gritted teeth, flinging his non-school shoes at him. I hate giving up but we need to get to school. As we half-hurry over frosty pavements, my brain rewards me with a steady stream of increasingly ridiculous suggestions as to where his shoe might be.
I dismiss the idea that a microcosmic bermuda-triangle event occurred between the shoe box and the kitchen, ate his shoe and instantly evaporated. Whilst the idea of the invisible shoe guzzler at least brings a smile to my face, I am similarly unconvinced.
Where You Least Expect It
When I get back from school, I give the kitchen an expert and uninterrupted (and unhurried) search. Nothing. Maybe it was eaten by the Tupperware monster who randomly chomps on the lids that match whatever you have put the leftovers in. I shrug resignedly and ponder when I might be able to get to Clarks to buy a new pair.
I go into the living room to get my water bottle and what do you know? It’s there. Half on the bookshelf. Abandoned like a rusty car on a back street to nowhere. I have the shoe but no closure – how did it get there?
I may never know.
